Sons and Brothers
by Zara Zee
Summary: Pre Series. When Jax Teller meets Dean and Sam Winchester he comes face to face with a scary, new world that he never even knew existed.   Longer summary and warnings in chap one. Dean and Jax are 15; Sam is nearly 11.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **_Sons and Brothers_

**Total Words:** _46,572_

**Genre(s):** _Drama/Family/Action_

**Rating:** _T_

**Type:** _Supernatural/Sons of Anarchy Crossover (Gen)_

**Disclaimer: **_Not mine. They belong to Kripke or Sutter….I'm just playing…for fun_

**Spoilers:** _None. Set pre season for both shows_

**Warnings:** _Rated for language, sexual references, adult themes, drug use, violence, and two incidents involving the physical discipline of minors._

**Summary:** _Why are children disappearing in Charming? Why can't the Sons of Anarchy stop it happening? And who is the mysterious Vietnam veteran who just drove his classic car into town? When Jax Teller meets Dean and Sam Winchester he comes face to face with a scary, new world that he never even knew existed. Will the Sons of Anarchy run the Winchesters out of town or will they put their skepticism aside and join forces with them to fight off a vicious monster who's preying on the town's children?_

_Jax and Dean are fifteen, Sam is almost eleven._

**A/N:**_ Supernatural and Sons of Anarchy are two of my favourite shows…but you can't combine urban fantasy with gritty urban realism….can you? Well some people out there in LJ land did…although their stuff is a lot slashier than my contribution (!)….never-the-less, I was inspired! Reviews are loved. _

**Chapter One: **_**Born a ramblin' man…**_

_February 1994_

Sam Winchester emerges into the sunshine of a Californian late-winter afternoon, and makes his way down the concrete front steps of Lincoln Middle School.

It's warm for a February – 65 degrees or so by Sam's reckoning – and dressed as he is (long sleeved khaki tee-shirt, dark blue jeans, dark grey hoodie) the sunlight is starting to make Sam sweat a little.

"You're a _freak_, Winchester!" an anonymous voice yells from somewhere off to his right. Sam barely turns, but his hazel eyes slash lethally sideways from beneath his messy brown bangs, as he looks to see which one of his classmates wants his fist in their face. Whoever the culprit is, he prefers to hide inconspicuously amongst the herd and that's okay with Sam; it's too nice a day to get into another fight. Besides, John Winchester is hunting a rugaru in Sacramento this week and if Sam gets suspended while his Dad is out of town, the shit will _really_ hit the fan, and not just in a _you-won't-be-able-to-sit-down-for-a-week-once-I'm-through-with-you_ kind of a way. No, we're talking major league, life-altering, _these-kids've-been left-alone-for-over-a-week-we'd-better-contact-children's-services_ kind of a way. He considers that for a moment and has to concede that it's almost tempting. Sam is a few months short of his eleventh birthday and he's been on the road his whole life; dragged continuously from town to town and school to school, his life little more than a series of post cards, trailer parks, two star motels and cheap diners. The closest thing he has to a home is his old man's black 1967 Chevy Impala.

The Winchesters arrived in _this_ town during the Winter Break and Sam started at Lincoln Middle School as soon as the holidays were over. If he's still here for Washington's Birthday, it will not only be a miracle, it will be the longest he's ever spent at the one school.

Sam scowls. The other kids have got it right; he _is_ a freak. Life on the road has left him with no idea what television shows are cool to watch, what music is topping the charts or what clothes and hair cuts are in style. But if you want to know how to kill a werewolf (silver bullet to the heart) or how to gank an angry spirit (standard salt and burn), then Sam Winchester is the kid to ask.

Sam frowns. Freak is actually too mild a word for him. He's a….a…._super_ freak. The thing he wants most in his life is normality; but the life of the Winchesters is just about as far away from normal as it's possible to get. If it wasn't for his older brother Dean, Sam would've dropped a dime on his old man years ago.

Sam sighs and hitches his school bag higher on his shoulder. Dean has just turned fifteen, and in a lot of ways, he's just about the best older brother it would be possible for anyone to have. He's also ridiculously over-protective of his baby bro' and Sam sometimes feels smothered by him….and, _great_, now he feels guilty for having given rein to that particular thought. Dean is an awesome brother. End of. He practically raised Sam; is more of a father to him than their Dad is actually; and he's his best friend as well.

And thinking of Dean….there he is waiting for him at the school gate.

Dean is not hugely tall; a little above average perhaps, but he's broad, muscular and solid; not overweight, just solid, although Sam worries that he may run to fat when he's older, given the number of hamburgers he eats. Dean has hazel eyes like his brother, spiky brown hair and somehow always manages to look cool. He usually hooks up with the hottest girl in his year level within days of arriving in any new town, and Sam admires his self-confidence.

Sam grins at his brother, his guilt over his earlier uncharitable thoughts making him smile more enthusiastically than usual, and Dean's face lights up like a neon sign.

"Hey, Sammy!"

Sam winces. "Don't call me that!"

"Sorry, Sammy, I forgot."

Sam glares at his brother and then frowns.

"Where's your school bag?"

Dean's wattage dims a little.

"It's at home," he says softly, "Dad picked me up at lunchtime; told them we had a family emergency."

Sam's stomach drops. So much for making it to Washington's Birthday.

"When?" he asks tightly.

Dean is a long time answering.

"Straight away," he says finally, "Dad was gonna yank you outta school too but I persuaded him to let you finish your last day. I know how much that kinda shit means to you, Geekboy," he punches Sam lightly on the arm, then offers him a smile, "I even packed all your stuff up for you."

Sam appreciates Dean's thoughtfulness, but that doesn't stop the fury that's building up inside of him. For _once_ in his life he'd like to stay somewhere longer than two months; that isn't too much to ask…is it?

When they arrive back at the trailer park, John Winchester is settling up their final account with the park's superintendent over the hood of the Impala. He glances up at his sons as they approach, his heavy-set, lightly bearded face betraying no emotion.

"Dean," he says, "do a final walk through. Sam, make sure Dean packed up all your stuff and then go and use the bathroom. I want you in the car in ten minutes; we've got a long drive ahead of us."

"Yes, sir," Dean says promptly.

"I'm hungry," Sam complains, "why can't I have something to eat first?"

John's hooded eyes become slits and his body tenses as if Sam is getting on his very last nerve.

Dean puts his hands on Sam's shoulders and gives him a gentle nudge.

"Go," he says, "I packed snacks for us already. We'll eat in the car, okay?"

Sam glares at their father, which does nothing to improve the man's temper, and then allows Dean to propel him into the trailer.

"Are you insane?" Dean whispers, as soon as they are inside, "Can't you see the mood he's in?"

"What happened?" Sam asks snidely, "the rugaru take a bite out of his ass or something?"

Dean gives him a measured look.

"Dad put it down just fine," he hesitates, then adds, "turns out the thing was married. Turns out the wife was pregnant."

Sam's throat constricts.

"He didn't….?"

Dean shakes his head.

"Couldn't bring himself to do it. He tried to talk her into an abortion but…." Dean shrugs, "Guess she couldn't bring herself to believe her husband wasn't really human; came up with some 'rational explanation'," Dean marks these words with air quotes, "for why he turned into a monster," he shakes his head incredulously at this fairly standard civilian response. "She wouldn't accept her baby could be affected either," Dean looks away, "Dad made a note in his journal. Says we'll have to go back when the thing's ready to turn, put it down then," his eyes slide back to Sam's, "He hit the bottle pretty hard last night and he's got the mother of all hangovers today, so be nice, alright? And try not to piss him off."

Sam sighs his acquiescence and heads out to the tiny annex room that he and Dean have been sleeping in for the past seven weeks.

"Father of the frigging year," he mutters to himself as he sweeps quickly through the annex, making sure that Dean has gathered up all his stuff, "drags his sons outta school so he can drive 'em across state with a raging hangover. Never mind the Goddamn ghosts and monsters; he's gonna kill us on the frigging road."

"You ready to go?"

Dean has already finished his final sweep through the trailer and he's standing at the door to the annex, looking worriedly at Sam.

Sam understands why he's concerned. The mood John's in; the mood Sam's in, there's going to be trouble. And whenever there's trouble, Dean's the bunny in the middle. He's taken the heat for Sam on more than one occasion and Sam doesn't want that to happen again.

Sam draws a deep breath and meets his brother's eyes.

"Sorry Dean," he says quietly, "I won't poke the bear, I promise."

Half an hour later they're cruising down Highway 299, stuffing on potato chips, Twinkies and Coke. Usually, Metallica, Led Zeppelin or Black Sabbath is blaring out of the car speakers but today they're riding in silence, in deference to John's pounding head.

"So where are we headed?" Sam asks his brother, licking salt and grease from his fingers.

"Some pissant little town called Charming," Dean replies, "Wanna bet it's anything but?"

Sam grins. "How far away is it?"

Dean shrugs and slides his eyes to the rear view mirror. John meets his questioning look.

"'Bout fifty miles past Sacramento," he mutters, voice hoarse.

"What's the job?" Sam asks, but his father's eyes just slide back to the road.

"Something about kids going missing," Dean answers, "I don't know the details."

"Dad?" Sam probes.

Their father sighs, voice thick with irritation. "Shut up and let me drive, Sam."

Sam opens his mouth, ready to protest the injustice of his Dad's response, and Dean elbows him in the side.

"No poking the bear," he whispers.

Sam subsides in sullen silence. He scowls out of the window and watches the world pass him by. At some point he obviously falls asleep because suddenly Dean is shaking him awake.

"C'mon Sammy, we're there. Gotta get up."

Sam opens his eyes blearily, feeling sleep drunk and out of sorts. It's too dark to see much, but they seem to have stopped outside a log cabin. Dean puts a pack on Sam's back, hands him a couple of duffle bags and propels him towards the cabin. He flicks on lights and opens doors until he finds a bedroom; shoves Sam inside.

"Go to sleep, Sammy," he says softly and Sam doesn't argue, just pulls back the blankets and hits the mattress.

He wakes up to bright sunlight and for a minute he can't remember where he is; doesn't take long for the events of the previous evening to come flooding back though. He wonders where Dean is and climbs out of bed. He's still wearing the same clothes he wore to school yesterday, although Dean seems to have pulled off his boots. The cabin – it _is_ a log cabin – is the nicest place they've stayed in a while and Sam is delighted to find that it has three bedrooms. Dean is sound asleep in a different one of them. _Sweet!_ His own room for a change!

Their Dad is cleaning his guns at the kitchen table.

"Morning Dad."

John Winchester inclines his head.

"There's cereal, but no milk," he says, "I'll get Dean to go into town when he wakes up, bring us in some fresh supplies."

Sam helps himself to a bowl of dry cornflakes.

"How's your headache?" he ventures.

John grunts. "The Sacramento gig was tough. The look in that woman's eyes when….." he shudders and picks up another gun.

Sam figures that's as much of an apology as they're likely to get. He finishes his breakfast in silence and John clearly isn't looking to talk. The unspoken tension between John Winchester and his youngest son is so thick you'd need a chainsaw to cut through it. It dissipates somewhat when Dean gets up. He handles his father and brother like ticking time bombs and there's a deftness and surety about the way he jokes and jollies them along which speaks of long practice.

"Thought we'd head in to town," John says when they're all ready, "I've got some questions to ask. You two can hit the convenience store," he hands Dean four fifty dollar bills, "Stock up."

Dean grins at the money and looks a question at John. Their Dad smiles.

"Found a back room poker game in Sacramento," he says, answering Dean's unasked query, "made a _very_ tidy profit."

Hunting's strictly a not-for-profit kind of business. Poker games, pool hustling, and credit card fraud are how the Winchesters put food on the table. Occasionally they save the ass of someone who expresses gratitude with greenbacks, but not often.

Charming is not a big town; less than twenty five square miles in all and the look and structure of the main drag is classic Americana.

"Isn't it _charming_," Sam says sardonically, "like the town time forgot."

"Not a lotta chain stores," Dean remarks as the Impala tours main street.

"Yeah it's mostly independent Mom and Pop businesses," John agrees approvingly, "plus a coupla town big wigs: There's the Oswald family who own a lot of the industry and then there's The Sons of Anarchy Motorcycle Club. They own Teller-Morrow Automotives, and rumor has it they run the town."

"We got bikers?" Dean asks incredulously, "in _Charming_?"

As if to illustrate the point, a deep, rumbling sound announces the approach of a convoy of motor cycles. The Winchester boys stare as half a dozen Harleys stream past, riding in formation. One or two of the riders give the Impala an approving once over as they pass.

"Yep," says Dean, "We got bikers."

John snorts and hands him the car keys.

"Special Agent John Scully of the FBI will be questioning the townsfolk about missing kids. You boys do the shopping then head on home. I'll meet you back at the cabin."

"Yes, sir." Dean says reflexively.

Then he grins manically and pulls out the fake ID that says he's seventeen and therefore old enough to drive.

"Don't bruise my baby," John says, stroking the Impala's steering wheel lovingly, "or I'll bruise _you_."

John heads off to do his FBI impersonation and the boys hit the convenience store and stock up on food and toiletries. Shopping done, they explore main street a little and then head back to the cabin, Dean driving like a granny when they pass PD Central, but the good ol' boys barely spare them a glance.

They unpack the shopping first, then Dean makes them hot dogs. After lunch they explore the cabin. It's nice, in a rustic kind of way, spacious with an open fire place in the lounge and a separate utility room with both a washer and a drier out back.

"I hope we can stay here a while," Sam remarks wistfully.

Dean nods. "This place can't be cheap. Dad must've really scored at that poker game."

They take a walk outside – the yard is big and it backs onto a wooded area. Dean decides he's going to explore the woods – maybe even chop some timber for the fire - so Sam figures he'll go back inside and read for a while. He's curled up on the sofa drinking cocoa, his head wrapped up in _Adventures of Huckleberry Finn_ when John Winchester walks through the front door. Sam looks up.

"How'd it go Dad?"

John pulls a face. "Couldn't get anything out of anyone. People here…they don't talk to strangers, even if they've got a badge. The most anyone would say was that if I want answers in this town I gotta talk to Sam Crow. But no-one'll tell me who he is or where I can find him."

He flops down on the sofa next to his son.

"So what's the job?" Sam asks.

John's quiet a moment then says, "Missing kids."

Sam frowns and wonders why his Dad is so determined to keep him in the dark on this one.

"Dean told me that yesterday," he says impatiently, "What makes you think it's our sort of thing?"

"It's cyclic," John says grudgingly, clearly keen to get off the topic.

"And it's only going after kids, right?" Sam persists.

His father doesn't respond and Sam feels a familiar helpless fury rising within him. Out of the three of them, Sam is for sure the smartest and he's sick of the way his Dad treats him like an idiot, always trying to keep him in the dark. It's not his fault he hasn't grown up yet.

"So what're we talking here, Dad? Changelings? Rawhead? Or are we thinking some kind of ghost?"

"Did you get any beer?" John says, getting up from the couch.

"No Dad," Sam's reply is heavy with sarcasm, "We're _eleven_ and _fifteen_, remember? You have to be twenty-one to buy beer."

"You watch your tone with me, boy!"

John's looking at him the way he looks at evil creatures just before he rips their heads off, and Sam _knows_ what that look means, but he's too frustrated to play nice.

"Why won't you talk to me about this hunt?" he snarls.

"That's enough, Sam!" his father growls, "why can't you just….." he trails off.

Sam gets to his feet, his fists bunched in anger.

"What can't I _what_? Be a normal kid? Go play with my toys? Oh gee, Dad, I don't know. Maybe it's got something to do with the way you keep dragging me around the country killing monsters! Yanking me outta school all the time, never letting me live anywhere long enough to make friends. It's not _fair_! It's not _my_ fault Mom died! I was just a baby; _you're_ the one couldn't protect her!"

John Winchester moves snake-strike fast, bunching his fist in a handful of Sam's shirt and jerking him forwards. Before Sam's had time to really register what's happening he's bent over the arm of the sofa and John is pulling Sam's jeans down. Sam goes a little crazy then, kicking, screaming and thrashing about desperately; not that it does him any good. John reaches back with his right arm, winds it right back at the shoulder, and then slams it down, hard and fast, his hand held rigid.

_Wham!_

_Shit!_

It _really_ hurts and Sam is already crying by the time the second blow lands. It's not fair! _Wham!_ His life _sucks_! _Wham!_ And he really, _Wham!,_ really , _Wham!,_ hates his father. _Wham!_ There's a sudden loud, scary clatter and Sam sees a small log roll across the floor.

"Dad! No! Stop it," he hears Dean yell. He turns his head and sees a scattered pile of chopped wood which Dean has dropped hastily near the door.

"Stop it!" Dean yells again, as he charges forward and grabs John's hand. John turns on Dean and Sam scrambles out from under, yanks his jeans up and runs. He pauses at the front door and looks back over his shoulder at his brother. Dad's got Dean bailed up against the wall now and Sam _knows_ he's got to do something; got to help Dean like Dean helped him. But he's still too small; too young and there's nothing he can do.

Dean motions at him with his hand, waving him away. Sam hesitates and then flinches when Dad gets right in Dean's face and shouts loudly and angrily at him. Dean waves Sam away again, more frantically this time and Sam turns and runs. And he keeps running; through the yard and deep into the woods. He stops eventually and rests his hands on his knees, breathing hard. Whatever his Dad is hunting, he sure hopes it doesn't do its thing in these woods. He looks around and spots a solid looking overhanging branch. Sam climbs up and then crawls out along the limb. He lies face down with his legs hanging either side of the branch, folds his arms in front of him and rests his chin on the crook of his arms. His ass still feels blistered, but that's a minor pain compared to the one in his chest. He _promised_ Dean he wouldn't poke the bear, but when it comes to his Dad he just can't seem to help mouthing off. And now Dean's having to deal with the fallout from Sam's mistake. Again. Sam both loves him and hates him for that. Sam sighs and wipes at his tear-stained face. Sometimes he feels like one of those cartoon characters with an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other. Sam knows that his brother would literally die for him, and although that knowledge makes him feel loved and grateful, it also pisses him off. He wants them to be equals; to do stuff together; help each other. If all he's going to do is drag Dean down with him; if he's just a burden that Dean is forced to bear, then his brother is better off without him.

A slight crunching in the undergrowth tells Sam that someone is approaching, moving slowly and casually from somewhere off to his right. He sighs, figuring it's Dean come to take him home. From his vantage point in the tree, Sam watches quietly in the direction of the noise, and when he eventually gets a visual he's surprised.

It's not Dean.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Full Summary and Warnings in Chapter One…  
**_**_**

**Chapter Two. **_**The king is dead, but life goes on**_

Jax Teller climbs up onto the roof of the clubhouse, sits himself down near the air conditioning outlet and waits.

This spot, this crows nest, is just about his favourite place to hang out. It's quiet, no-one bothers him and he can just chill out and think without having to worry about being The Prince.

Jax digs a soft pack of cigarettes out of the pocket of his baggy jeans and lights up. Most of the time being The Prince is cool, but it means the spotlight's always on him and sometimes he'd like a little privacy. Like the last few months, for example.

Jax draws back deeply on his cigarette and exhales slowly. It's been three months to the day since John Teller – Jax's father and the inaugural president of the Sons of Anarchy Motorcycle Club - slid his bike under the wheels of a semi trailer. The loss has left Jax gutted. Used to be a time he lived in a family of four; now it's just him and his Mom, Gemma. His little brother Tommy went first, died of a heart condition three years ago. Losing his Dad on top of that is just too much.

Jax sucks hard on his smoke again and runs a tired hand through his collar-length, messy blonde hair. There have been other big changes in his life too; like his Mom taking about five minutes to hook up with his Dad's number two, Clay Morrow. As VP, Clay is a shoo-in for the role of President now that John Teller is gone.

Jax takes another long drag, causing the tip of the cigarette to flame bright red. Jax can see why taking up with Clay would make sense to his Mom. She likes being the Queen; fair enough, given that she's the one who brought the club to Charming in the first place. And she wants her son to stay The Prince. As the first president's son and the second president's step-son, Jax's eventual elevation to the role himself will just be a formality. Gemma is nothing if not pragmatic and adaptable, and Jax admires those qualities in her.

"We've gotta move on, Jax," she'd told him, "We've gotta do what's best for _us_; the ones who are still here. Your Dad would want that. Hell, he'd _expect_ us to put our grief aside and secure our position in the club."

And then she'd told him that Clay was going to be moving in with them.

Jax sighs and butts out his cigarette. Today is the big day. A removal truck dropped all Clay's shit off at the house earlier and any minute now, there's going to be an extraordinary general meeting of the Sons, for the purpose of electing a new President. Clay's been Acting President since John Teller died, but protocol demands a three month mourning period before someone else can step permanently into his shoes.

The drone of a dozen Harleys announces that the meeting is about to happen. From his vantage point on the roof, Jax watches with pride as his club rides in formation to the front door of the club. Clay pauses at the door and takes a long toke on his cigar, looking around with obvious satisfaction before heading inside. The door closes with a final sounding thud and Jax wishes fervently that he was old enough to prospect because he badly wants to be in that meeting.

After about an hour Clay comes out by himself. He looks around again and then gets on his bike and takes off.

Jax frowns. Clay leaving is unexpected. The Sons should all adjourn to the bar room after the vote. There should be drinking, smoking and back slapping. There should be tales of remembrance; toasts to John Teller, toasts to Clay. And later, all the old ladies and kids will join them for a huge club party. The party will go long into the night, it will keep going long after the old ladies and the kids are sent home; the sweet butts will join them then and the evening will get loud and hazy and sweaty. Jax hadn't expected to see Clay home until the morning.

Swearing softly, he climbs down from the roof and hurries home. Clay's bike is parked in the driveway and Jax curses again, not sure yet how much trouble he's in but sure that there's going to be at least some trouble. Before he left for the meeting Clay gave Jax an order; told him to spend the day at home helping his Mom unpack all Clay's stuff. The fact that he went out instead - Jax has a feeling that's not going to sit well with his new step-father; the man's been on his back a lot lately, complaining about him not doing what he's told .

Clay and Gemma are sitting at the kitchen table talking and Clay has a Budweiser in one hand. They glance up when Jax ambles in, trying to look casual.

"Where've you been?" Clay rumbles.

Jax looks quickly at his mother, but she's giving nothing away.

"Just needed some time," he ventures, giving Clay his trademark good ol' boy smile, "how'd the vote go?"

Clay puts down his beer, stands, and spreads his arms wide.

"You're looking at the new President," he grins proudly.

Jax returns the grin.

"Congratulations, man. That's awesome."

He moves forward and does the handshake-hug thing with Clay. Clay claps him on the back and then holds him out at arms length and stares at him.

"You wanna prospect some day, right?" he says.

Jax nods. "Of course."

"How does the final part of the Prospect's Pledge go?" Clay asks with a smile that's not entirely pleasant.

Jax doesn't respond and Clay's smile becomes truly nasty.

"Don't tell me that John Teller's son doesn't know how the Pledge goes?"

"I know how it goes," Jax says quietly.

"Then recite the final part," Clay insists.

Jax glances at his mother and Clay gets in his face.

"Do _not_ look at your Mom," he says with quiet menace, "this is between you and me! Recite the final part of the Pledge!"

Jax takes a deep breath, says: "I pledge to follow any and all orders given to me by a full member of the club without question or hesitation."

"Good. What did I tell you to do this morning, Jax?"

The 'without question or hesitation' part of the Prospect's Pledge is still ringing in Jax's ears and yet he still hesitates to answer, earning himself a sneer from Clay.

"You told me to stay here and help my Mom unpack all your stuff," he says finally, "but she didn't need-" Jax doesn't get to finish the sentence because Clay cuffs the back of his head.

"And did you do what you were told to do?" Clay asks.

"No." Jax knows better than to offer an excuse this time.

Clay's looking hard at him, eyes cold and flat. Jax lifts his chin and meets the man's gaze without flinching.

"This isn't the first time you haven't done what I told you to, Jax," Clay says.

Jax says nothing. The last time he saw this look on Clay's face, the guy back-chatting him got his head put through a glass coffee table.

"If I think you can't follow orders," Clay continues, "you don't got a snowball's hope in hell of prospecting. Ever."

"I'm sorry, Clay," Jax says immediately, "It won't happen again."

Because he _has_ to be a part of the club. Anything else is unthinkable.

"I know," Clay nods, "because we're gonna make sure it doesn't. Go to your room."

Jax only hesitates for a fraction of a second, but Clay sees it and his eyes narrow. Jax turns abruptly and strolls to his room, seemingly casual and at ease, like a guy who doesn't have a care in the world. That's just a façade of course. Inside he's shaking like a little girl. He's got no idea what Clay's got in mind, but he's pretty sure that whatever it is, he's not going to like it.

He sits down on the edge of his bed and lights a cigarette; hears his Mom say, "Is that really necessary, Clay?" There's a pause, then Clay says, "If everything goes according to plan, he's gonna be my VP some day. I can't have him second guessing me all the time. He needs to understand that there's a chain of command; that my orders – whatever they are - are for him to obey, not question; and certainly not to ignore. We don't want him ending up like his old man."

Jax frowns. What does Clay mean by that? John Teller was a great father and a kind man.

Clay's speaking again, "It may not seem like it now," he says, "but this is about protecting Jax."

A heartbeat later Clay is standing in the doorway to Jax's bedroom and Jax is thinking that Clay and he have a very different concept of the word _protection_. Clay moves into the room, his right hand wrapped tightly around a wide, leather belt, the end of which is swinging from his grip.

"Stand up," he says.

Jax takes a final drag on his cigarette, then butts it out and stands up.

Clay's got him well and truly cornered. If he refuses to go along with whatever his step-father has in mind, then Clay is going to bar him from ever joining the Sons, and that's just not acceptable. His father started the club, for fuck's sake. Jax wants to wear that cut more than anything.

Still…he can't take his eyes of that belt and...just_…..fuck!_

There's an old straight-backed, burgundy leather chair that sits in the corner of Jax's room and Clay pulls it into the centre and beckons Jax forwards. The back of the chair is level with Jax's hips and Clay tells him to bend over it and put his hands on the seat.

…_..without question or hesitation…._

Jax does what he's told. He's far more scared of being cut off from the club than he is of taking a belting. His father never hit him, period, and Gemma's only ever slapped his face a couple of times, but Jax has been in plenty of school yard brawls and street fights and he figures he can handle a little pain. Still, he nearly loses his cool when he feels Clay grab the waistband of his jeans and pull them down. _That's_ about humiliating him, and it's effective.

_Crack!_

"Ah!"

The first lick of the belt hurts much, much more than Jax expected and he's startled into a response. He grits his teeth and promises himself that he won't make another noise and for the first twenty or so licks, it's a promise he's able to keep. After that it gets more difficult and when Clay finally steps away, some fifty odd licks later, Jax is crying unashamedly, his face a mess of snot and tears.

As soon as he realizes that it's over, Jax tries to stand up, but fails.

"Jax?"

He turns his head to look at Clay, but can't muster up a glare; as much as he dislikes the man, he's simply too exhausted.

His step-father looks truly dejected, like he's just had to do something repulsive, and Jax suddenly finds that he can't hate him quite as much as he wants to.

"Take as much time as you need," Clay says, "We'll see you down at the club later."

Jax nods briefly.

As soon as Clay has gone he peels himself up off the back of the chair and staggers across to his bed. He flops down on his stomach and then twists his head around to look over his shoulder at his ass. It's a fierce red color, with raised welts, and purple stripes, and Jax figures he's not going to be sitting comfortably for a few days.

He rests his head on the cool of his pillow and tries to remember the last time that he cried. It's been a while. Ever since Tommy died, he's been focused on keeping it together; being strong for everyone. And strong men don't cry.

Jax hears the squeak of floorboards outside his room and recognizes his Mom's footsteps. She knocks softly on his open door and Jax can't be bothered to care that his bare ass is hanging out.

Gemma puts an icy cold tea towel over his inflamed backside and he shivers.

"Shit! That's cold!"

"Yeah," Gemma hesitates, "I put it in the freezer when….well…."

She sits on the edge of his bed and rubs his back softly.

"Are you okay, baby?"

Jax nods.

"I'm fine."

They sit in silence for a while, Gemma rubbing his back, which feels nice and relaxing.

"I bet you hate Clay right now, don't you?" Gemma says eventually.

Jax shrugs.

"A bit," he admits.

"You know," Gemma's voice falters, "you know this wasn't about him hating _you_, right? He's just doing what he thinks is best for you."

Jax snorts.

"I get that, Mom. Doesn't mean I have to like it."

They sit quietly again and then Jax turns sideways and says, "The thing is, me and Clay are always gonna have problems because I'm not as hot headed as he is. He wants me to obey without question or hesitation, but I can't always do that. Sometimes I gotta think things through; that's just me."

"I know, baby," Gemma says, "and that's why the club's gonna need you. Clay's all about action and that's good. But sometimes you _do_ have to think stuff out; move past the moment and focus on the long term. That's what you're good at, baby. But you've gotta be a brother before you can be a leader. You've gotta work your way up; earn that position. Show them that you're willing to put your ass on the line."

Jax chokes out a laugh. "Think I got that part covered, Mom!"

Gemma smiles.

"Are you really okay?"

Jax nods.

"Not gonna be riding my bike any time soon, but yeah," he meets her worried eyes, "I was just trying to remember the last time I cried. I didn't cry when Dad died; didn't cry when Tommy died. Hell, I don't even know when the last time I cried was. I feel…calmer….now than I have for a while. I think maybe," he looks away, "I think maybe crying's good for you."

Gemma takes his face in her hands, tears pooling in her eyes.

"So do I, baby," she says, "so do I."

She kisses him quickly then stands up.

"Will we be seeing you down at the club later?"

Jax nods.

"Yeah, later. I'm gonna take a shower; maybe go out for a walk; clear my head."

Gemma walks to the door, pauses.

"I love you."

"Love you too, Mom."


	3. Chapter 3

_**Full Summary and Warnings in Chapter One…  
**_**_**

**Chapter Three: **_**Living easy, living free**_

It's not Dean, but the guy who stops underneath Sam's branch is about Dean's age.

He's of average height and build, with longish, messy blonde hair, partly obscured by a black beanie with an anarchy symbol on it. He's wearing baggy dark blue jeans and an oversized grey hoodie emblazoned with the word SON.

He has his back to Sam and Sam can see that he has his hands up in front of his face, but can't quite make out what he's doing. Then he hears a click and smells cigarette smoke. It wafts straight up into his face and he coughs slightly.

The guy looks up, the ready-to-fight aggression in his eyes fading fast when he spots Sam. He smiles and Sam can't help smiling back.

"Hey kid," the guy says, "whatcha doin' up there?"

Sam considers the question.

"I just needed some space to think."

The guy nods. "I hear you, bro'."

He takes another drag on his cigarette and then something seems to occur to him and he frowns.

"Hey kid? You want me to take off? Leave you to your thinking?"

Sam shakes his head.

"Nah, I'm pretty much done."

"You come to any conclusions about anything?" the guy asks.

Sam nods.

"Yeah. The same conclusion I always come to."

"What's that?"

Ordinarily Sam would be evasive with a stranger who asked so many questions, but there's something about this guy that makes him want to talk.

"That I've got to learn to keep my mouth shut," he says, "Just for the next seven years, and then I can leave; go my own way."

The guy sucks on his smoke again.

"Family trouble, huh?"

Sam snorts.

"Yeah. We're not exactly the Bradys."

The guy laughs.

"I hear you 'bro. Know a little something about crazy-assed, messed up families myself."

"I bet you've never met a family as crazy as mine," Sam mutters.

The guy gives him a measured look and then sticks his hand up towards Sam.

"Jax Teller," he says.

Sam grips his hand.

"Sam Winchester."

"You're new in town, right?"

"Yeah. Just got here yesterday with my Dad and my brother."

Jax drops his cigarette butt on the ground and grinds it out with the heel of his white Nikes. He leans back against the trunk of Sam's tree and stares up at him.

"How old's your brother?" he asks.

"Fifteen."

Sam twists around to answer, because Jax is now behind him, but that's awkward, so he decides to climb down from the tree instead.

Jax is watching him thoughtfully. "Me too. Are you guys staying here long?"

Sam shrugs.

"Depends on Dad."

"Yeah? What does your old man do?"

"He's….an investigator."

Jax's demeanor changes immediately and he suddenly looks a lot less friendly.

"Why is he in Charming?" he demands.

Sam shrugs.

"Something about missing kids?"

Jax looks puzzled.

"That was a year ago."

From which Sam surmises that this year's cycle hasn't started yet.

"Well…it's gonna happen again."

Jax stares at him.

"How do you know that?"

Sam shrugs again.

"It's what my Dad does. He says it's gonna happen again. And he's looking into it."

Jax is silent for a moment.

"If he's right…if kids start going missing again….he doesn't have to worry. The club will take care of it."

Sam stares at Jax's hoodie and beanie and suddenly he gets it.

"Hey!" he says, "you're part of that biker's club, aren't you? The Sons of Anarchy?"

"Sort of. My Dad founded it. And my Step-Dad's the current president."

Sam nods, thinking that by normal people's standards, this guy probably did have a crazy-ass family. But then, a wry grin twists Sam's mouth, unless you've survived your Mom burning to death plastered to the ceiling of your bedroom, a witch-monster trying to suck the life out of you, and your old man handing you a .45 and telling you to aim for the head when you told him there was a monster in your closet, you have no idea what crazy-ass _really_ is.

"You okay, dude?"

Sam nods. "Hey Jax? You don't know a guy called Sam Crow do you?"

Jax's lips twitch in amusement.

"Yeah. Why?"

"Everyone in town told my Dad he has to talk to Sam Crow. Do you know where he lives?"

Jax is grinning now.

"Sons of Anarchy Motorcycle Club, Redwood Original charter," he says, the capitalization of each word obvious in his tone, "S-A-M-C-R-O. Also known as Sam Crow. It's us."

A triumphant smile spreads slowly across Sam's face. _Alright_! He's just found out something important that his father doesn't know.

"D'you think your step-dad would be willing to talk to my Dad?" he asks.

Jax shrugs.

"Dunno. If your old man really does know something about trouble coming then…maybe. But if there's a problem, we'll take care of it ourselves."

Sam nods. He respects that. He's lived in more towns across America than most people have had hot dinners and he's seen that people don't look out for each other much any more, not the way his Dad says they used to back in the day. Charming is almost a throwback to an old frontier town and the Sons are modern day gunslingers on metal-backed horses. As to them dealing out justice to whatever was planning on taking the town's kids, John Winchester would probably love to leave them to it with his blessing, except that the Sons aren't expecting a real live monster and wouldn't know what to do with it if they found it.

Jax's head suddenly whips to one side as Dean emerges from a thicket of trees.

Sam watches as his brother approaches, sees him sizing Jax up, working out his height and weight, the likely length of his steps and reach of his arms. Sam glances at Jax and sees him doing the same with Dean.

"Who's your friend, Sammy?" Dean demands, stopping just out of arms reach.

"Jax Teller. This is my brother Dean."

Jax takes a step forward and holds out his hand.

Dean hesitates for a fraction of a second and then steps up and takes the offered hand. There's a quick, firm handshake and then Dean steps back with a nod of approval and cuts his eyes to Sam.

"We gotta go back to the cabin."

The cabin. And Dad. Who may still be in a rage. Sam glares at Dean, using the unfriendly look to hide the fact that he's surreptitiously checking his brother for bruises or other signs of injury. Dean looks fine – he usually is; he learnt how to calm their Dad down a long time ago. Besides, Sam doubts that Dean would've come looking for him if there was any chance his Dad was still having a temper tantrum. Still….

"Is Dad…" and then he remembers that they aren't alone and trails off.

"Dad's worried coz you ran off into the woods," Dean says carefully.

Jax moves abruptly and Dean's eyes slide across to him but he's just getting out his cigarettes. He holds the pack out to Dean who raises an eyebrow then shakes his head.

"No thanks," he says, "I got enough things trying to kill me already!"

Sam can see that Jax is a little flummoxed by this remark, but he doesn't comment, just shrugs and lights himself a smoke.

Dean looks back at Sam.

"C'mon, Sammy. We've gotta go."

"Sam?" Jax says, his eyes serious, "Do you want to leave with your brother? Because you don't have to. If you don't think it'll be _safe_ at home."

"Hey!" Dean is suddenly in Jax's face, "Aint nothing gonna happen to my little brother while I'm around!"

"What about when you're not around?"

This takes the wind out of Dean's sails a little.

"I'm always around," he says softly, "or at least not far," he adds ruefully, his eyes guiltily finding his brother and looking an apology at him.

Jax finds himself wishing that he had a big brother like Dean.

"Who watches _your_ back, Dean?" he wonders aloud.

"Sam," Dean responds automatically and then he takes a step backwards, "and this is getting just a bit too close to a chick flick moment for my liking, so I think we'll be going now."

Sam puts a restraining hand on his brother's arm.

"Jax knows Sam Crow," he says.

Dean's eyes flick back to Jax and Jax is startled by the change in them. Suddenly, Dean looks ten years older and every inch the professional.

"Really?" he says, "Sam Crow may have important information regarding a case our father's working on. Our Dad's an investigator," he adds, "D'you think Sam Crow would be willing to talk to him?"

Jax shrugs.

"How about I come and meet your Dad? Maybe after I've met him I can decide whether I should put in a good word."

Dean's hazel eyes meet the bland but firm expression in Jax's grey ones and Sam can see that his brother is debating the wisdom of letting a stranger past the Winchester family barricades. After a beat he nods brusquely.

"C'mon Sammy," he says and turns away.

Sam smiles at Jax and hurries after his brother.

Jax sighs, drops his butt in the dirt and grinds it out with his heel. He follows the Winchester boys through the woods with the unsettling feeling that he might've just bitten off more than he can chew.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Full Summary and Warnings in Chapter One…  
**_**_**

**Chapter Four – **_**Gotta raise some hell**_

The Winchesters are staying in one of the vintage Log Cabins that Oswald owns and Jax frowns at the backs of the brothers; they look pretty blue collar to him, not like Oswald's typical clientele at all. He usually rents his cabins to yuppies planning on heading out to Franks Tract State Recreation Area for a spot of weekend get-back-to-nature fishing and hiking; and they aren't cheap.

Dean pushes Sam in through the cabin's front door, his hands on his brother's shoulders. He lets his Dad get a look at the kid and then deftly maneuvers himself in between them. His posture is tense and alert and Jax silently approves of the way this guy looks out for his little brother.

"What were you thinking, Sam?" the older Winchester demands, "running off like that?"

And then he spots Jax hovering in the cabin doorway and his eyes slash to Dean.

"Who's this?" he asks. His tone is disapproving and that tells Jax a lot. He has a couple of friends who keep their front doors off limits and its always because there's something at home they want to hide.

The large collection of guns, knives and crossbows laid out on the kitchen table tells him a lot too.

"This is Jax," Dean tells his father, "he found Sam in the woods."

Papa Winchester looks quizzically at his oldest son and Jax can tell that Sam and Dean's Dad doesn't consider this a good enough reason for allowing a breach of the family perimeter.

"He knows Sam Crow," Sam pipes up and Winchester Senior's whole demeanor changes.

"That right?" he drawls, "Need to ask him a few questions. D'you know where I can find him?"

Jax sidles over to the kitchen table. He picks up a large silver dagger and hefts it.

"The thing about Sam Crow," he says, matching Papa Winchester's slow drawl, "is that Sam Crow doesn't like the law." He fixes his flat, grey-eyed stare on the man and adds, "but I'm thinking that might not necessarily be a problem here."

The scene is briefly a tableaux and then Papa Winchester strides forwards and offers Jax his hand.

"John Winchester," he says.

Jax grips it and swallows past the sudden lump in his throat; the man shares his father's first name.

"And you're right," John Winchester adds, "I'm not the law," he quirks an eyebrow, "I'm a freelancer."

Jax nods. Gun for hire; he knows the type.

"Thing is, John, it's like I told your boys; in this town, we fix our own problems. No offense or anything, but if something is gonna happen again, we can handle it ourselves."

John raises an eyebrow, not pleased to have a teenager address him by his first name.

" Like you handled it last year?" he says flatly, "And the year before? And the year before that?"

And Jax has to concede that John Winchester makes a good point. He remembers his Dad's rage last year when three of Charming's ten year old boys went missing…for the third year in a row. He remembers the whispered angry conversations; remembers Tig saying it _couldn't_ be _that bastard_, before the others told him to shut up; remembers the confusion and, yeah, if he's honest about it, he remembers fear. The club had been lost. If all that is going to happen again, then maybe….much as at would gall Clay to admit it….maybe they do need John Winchester's help.

So Jax makes what his old man would have called an executive decision. He explains the SAMCRO acronym to the Winchesters and promises to try to get the club to work with John.

"The best way in," he says, "is through Dean."

"Hey!" Sam bristles, "what about me? I can help!"

Jax shakes his head.

"Sorry kid. You're too young to party with Sam Crow.

"So are you and Dean," John growls.

Jax laughs.

"Yeah well, I had to grow up fast. And something tells me Dean did too. You want in, this is the way in."

He holds John's eyes, his own flat and expressionless, "What do you say?"

Finally John nods.

"Okay. What's the play?"

"Dean comes with me to the party we're having at the club tonight and Dean gets in good with the guys. Once Clay and the rest trust him, they'll be more willing to trust you."

John gives his permission for Dean to party with the Sons and Jax turns to Dean, a serious expression on his face.

"So," he says, "what do you know about motor cycles?"

Dean quirks an eyebrow, and for a brief moment looks very like his old man.

"I'm more of a classic car guy myself."

"Yeah, I saw the Impala out the front. Sweet ride. '67 model, right?"

Dean grins.

"You wanna take a look under her hood?"

Jax laughs.

"Somehow you managed to make that sound totally dirty. But, hell yeah, I'd love to."

An hour later Jax has discovered that while Dean's interest in motor cycles is negligible, he knows as much about engines and vehicular mechanics as Jax himself does. He also has a wicked sense of humor and is a lot of fun to hang out with. And when Sam comes out to join them, he doesn't send the kid packing the way most guys would if their little brother tried to hang out with them. Watching their easy camaraderie, Jax can see that the Winchester brothers are close and he suddenly finds himself missing Tommy so badly that it hurts.

"You okay, dude?" Sam puts a tentative hand to Jax's arm.

Jax nods.

"Yeah," he says, but he can't get the pain out of his voice and Sam is still looking at him with concern. "It's just," he swallows, "my little brother Tommy. He'd've been about your age now. If…..," he can't continue.

Jax sees recognition and understanding flare in two sets of hazel eyes.

"We lost our Mom when we were little," Sam ventures, "it's hard to lose someone you love."

For one horrible moment Jax thinks that he's going to cry, so he turns away quickly and lights a cigarette. He hears the noise of a trunk opening and when he turns around, Dean hands him a beer, which he accepts gratefully.

"You should know," he adds after a few swigs, "that my old man bought it a few months ago too. That's why Clay took over as President today. He was my Dad's VP. Tonight's a sort of requiem for my Dad as well as a celebration of Clay being the new President."

"I'm really sorry, Jax," Sam says earnestly, his eyes so full of compassion and understanding that for a moment he reminds Jax of a puppy, "That must be really hard."

"Yeah okay, Samantha," Dean interrupts uncomfortably, "I think we're done feeling our feelings now. Right Jax?"

Jax smiles at Sam, trying to show him that he _is_ grateful for the understanding, and then he nods at Dean.

"Right," he says.

Dean leans forward and chinks his beer bottle against Jax's.

"The way I see it," he says conspiratorially, "if God _wanted_ us to feel all the screwed up shit in our lives, he wouldn't have invented alcohol!"

Sam sighs and rolls his eyes.

"You know how unhealthy that attitude is, right Dean?"

Dean flashes him a wicked grin and Sam shakes his head.

"Yeah, well, I guess I'll leave you two geniuses to it," he heads back towards the cabin, then turns and comments over his shoulder, "and Dad thinks _I'm_ the kid in this family," he shakes his head again and disappears into the cabin.

"Smart as hell my baby brother," Dean remarks, "gets straight As, _likes_ school," he shakes his head incredulously, "but, man, can he be uptight."

An hour and a half later Jax and Dean walk through the front gates of Teller -Morrow Automotives and head for the Sons of Anarchy club rooms, located off to the right. It's not quite 6.00 o'clock and the 'family' part of the evening is already in full swing.

Piney and Bobby are grilling steaks and sausages on a big barbeque out the front and kids are running everywhere, sizzled sausages in bread grasped in grubby hands. Jax does the handshake thing with Piney and Bobby, then introduces them to Dean.

"You want a sausage, boy?" Piney asks Dean.

Dean shakes his head.

"Sausage isn't really my thing," he quips, "I prefer my meat tender and juicy," he grins suggestively, his eyes roving across the leather, lace and denim clad biker chicks who are watching the kids play in the yard, while they suck on cigarettes and toss back champagne, "Nothing like a nice bit of rump," he adds, before flicking his eyes back to Piney and giving him a shit eating grin.

Piney spears a steak with a barbeque fork and holds it up. It's rare – maybe even blue – and oozing blood and meat juice.

"You like your steak bloody?" Piney asks. His tone is slightly menacing and Dean realizes that the man is trying to intimidate him; or maybe he's just trying to give him the full _walk-into-the-clubrooms-of-outlaw-bikers-get-your-head-messed-with_ experience.

"Prefer it well done," Dean replies calmly, "Ooh…you don't have any hamburgers do you?"

Bobby laughs and Jax can tell that he likes Dean's bravado.

Piney drops the chunk of steak back on the hot plate and gives it a poke before flipping it.

"Hamburgers are for pussies," he says.

Dean shrugs.

"Depends on the burger. Last year I ate a three pounder in 83 minutes. Got my meal for free _and_ a tee-shirt," Dean grins wickedly, "Barfed most of it up fifteen minutes later, but at least the tee-shirt came in handy for something, right?"

Bobby's laughing again and even though Piney's still glowering, Jax can see the twinkle in his eye.

"Come back in five minutes," he says gruffly, "I'll have some well-done steaks ready by then."

Jax leads Dean inside, telling him that they really should find Clay and pay their respects before they eat. Dean just nods and Jax can see that he's busy analyzing the room; checking out where the exits are, giving the pool table a once over, noting the cue rack, counting the cues, sizing up the people; who's a threat, who's not; eyeing the bar and the pole-dancing stages where the sweet butts will perform later; and finally he looks at the mug shots on the wall and turns enquiringly to Jax.

"Wall of Infamy," Jax says, "the first time a member gets arrested his mug shot goes on the wall."

"You're not up there."

Jax shakes his head.

"I'm not a member."

Dean nods.

"Not a member. But you have been arrested."

It's a statement, not a question, but Jax answers anyway.

"Once. For underage drinking, drunk and disorderly, and resisting arrest. What about you? Ever been arrested?"

Dean's still for a moment, then he nods.

"Couple of times. Once for.." he hesitates, "vandalism and once for break and enter."

Vandalism sounds so much better than grave desecration.

"You on probation?" Jax asks.

Dean shrugs.

"Didn't hang around long enough to find out. Besides, I didn't give them my real name anyway."

Jax raises his eyebrows and figures that the Winchesters are going to fit right in to Charming. They've obviously got their own code of ethics and don't mind breaking the law if it suits them.

He spots Clay over by the bar and motions for Dean to follow him. Clay watches their approach closely and Jax thinks that he looks wary. Clay straightens up when Jax stops before him, but he doesn't speak, waiting for Jax to make the first move.

"Congratulations again, Clay," Jax says holding out his hand. Clay grips it, then pulls him into a hug and squeezes him tightly.

"Thanks, son," he whispers. The hug goes on for longer than usual and then Clay pulls away and holds Jax at arms length for a moment before nodding.

"Who's your friend?" he asks, turning towards Dean.

"This is Dean Winchester. He just moved into town with his family."

Dean steps forward and shakes Clay's hand.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, sir. Congratulations on the President thing."

"Thank you," Clay says, "And you can drop the 'sir.' We're anarchists, Dean. We don't believe in titles and formalities"

"Sorry, si-," Dean catches himself and grins apologetically, "My Dad's an ex-marine," he says, "It's sort of an ingrained habit."

"Vietnam?"

"Yes, s…. Yes."

Clay nods.

"Did a tour myself. What does your Dad do for a living now?"

Dean hesitates then says, "He's a mechanic by trade. But since our Mom died….well….we just sort of move from town to town and Dad picks up whatever work he can."

Clay nods in understanding and then turns away as someone else arrives to congratulate him. Jax takes Dean by the arm.

"C'mon," he says, "Piney should have those steaks done by now. Later, Clay," he touches knuckles with his step-father and he and Dean move away.

"My old man was in the Marines too," Jax tells Dean, "Him and Piney started the Sons together when they got back from the war."

Back at the barbeque Piney is a lot more friendly to Dean and Jax knows that's because Dean's been in to see the boss and come out unscathed; and that's the green light as far as Piney's concerned.

Piney stuffs a juicy, well-cooked steak into a hamburger bun, loads it with fried onion, and points Dean in the direction of the mustard and ketchup.

"I hear you were in the marines, sir," Dean says as he squeezes mustard onto his steak, "My old man was a marine too. Echo company. Second battalion. Served in Vietnam."

After that, Jax notes, Piney treats Dean like family.

"Where's Opie?" Jax asks when there's a lull in conversation.

Piney looks uncomfortable.

"He might be down later," he rumbles, "he's just…with his Mom at the moment."

Rumor has it that Piney and Mary are on the verge of splitting up. It's a well known fact that she despises her husband's involvement with the Sons and is desperate to keep Opie – their son, and Jax's best friend – away from them. Opie himself has been desperate to prospect ever since he first took a ride on his old man's Harley, and Jax knows that if Mary leaves town and takes Ope with her like she's been threatening to, then Ope is just going to turn around and come right back.

The barbeque gets busy so Jax and Dean leave Piney and Bobby to it and head back inside.

Tig and a red-haired Nomad known as Ranga are playing pool. Jax stealthily swipes a couple of beers from behind the bar and he and Dean settle down to watch the pool game. Dean _is_ watching the game, but he's a little distracted, sifting through all the information he's been gathering. All of the full members of the Sons of Anarchy wear black leather cuts with the club logo – a grim reaper of all things – on the back. Dean has noticed though, that they all have different badges. Clay has a badge that says "President" another that says "First 9" and another that says "Men of Mayhem."

Piney's badges say "Vice President," "First 9," and "Men of Mayhem," and Bobby's say "Treasurer" and "Men of Mayhem."

"Jax?"

"Yeah?"

"If Piney and your Dad started the club together, then why wasn't Piney your Dad's VP?"

"He was. Then he got emphysema and wanted to take a step back, so Clay stepped into the role. Now...there really isn't anyone else who can do the job and Piney _can_ still ride so…"

Dean nods.

"I get his earlier comment now. About how he's just keeping the seat warm for you."

Jax looks uncomfortable.

"Yeah," he says, "It's great being The Prince."

Dean nods.

"Roped into the family business, whether you wanted to be or not."

"Don't get me wrong," Jax replies, "I want in, more than anything else in the world. But," he hesitates, "there's a lot of expectation. It's a lot to live up to."

Dean takes a swig of his beer.

"I know what you mean, man. What does 'Men of Mayhem' mean?"

Jax hesitates.

"I'm not really supposed to say."

Dean holds up his hands.

"Hey, no sweat."

Jax lowers his voice.

"If someone's got that patch, it means they've killed for the club."

Dean tries not to react. He's never killed a human; plenty of supernatural creatures, sure. It's not like he's never had the blood of a sentient being on his hands before, but still. Never a human.

Tig wins the pool game and pockets a wad of cash before glancing across at Jax.

"Who's the stranger?"

"This is Dean. He's new in town."

Tig stares at Dean and Dean realizes uncomfortably that he's seen more humanity in the eyes of some of the creatures he's hunted. This man is one truly scary, psychotic S-O-B. Dean looks at his badges – or patches as Jax called them - and sees that Tig is the club's Sergeant-At-Arms. He has a 'Men of Mayhem' patch too - big surprise there.

"What part of town did your folks move to?" Tig asks.

"Uh, it's a log cabin. Out by the woods."

"One of Oswald's cabins" Jax clarifies.

Tig gives Dean a thorough once over and Jax can see him evaluating the guy, classifying him as a vacationing rich kid, an easy mark.

"You play pool, Dean?" Tig asks.

Dean nods.

"Couple of times. I'm not very good though."

Jax looks hard at him and even though he doesn't really know Dean very well yet, he can't quite escape the feeling that Dean is playing Tig.

Tig smiles.

"You want to play?" He pulls out one of the fifties he's just pocketed and puts it down on the table, "You can buy your way in with a fifty."

Jax watches Dean as he looks first apprehensive, then full of false bravado and he still can't shake the feeling that Dean's putting on an act.

"Sure," Dean says, pulling out his own wallet and putting a fifty dollar note on the table.

They play and Dean loses, but it's a close thing. He doesn't truly suck, to be honest, he just makes a few simple mistakes. And even though Tig isn't playing at anything like his best, he still manages to win.

"Aw man," Dean says putting his hands behind his head in horror, "I can't believe I just lost fifty bucks!"

"Sorry kid," Tig says.

"My old man's gonna tear strips off me," Dean turns to Tig, looks at him pleadingly, "You've gotta give me a chance to win it back!"

"Quit while you're ahead, son," Piney advises from somewhere behind, "or at least while you're only fifty dollars down."

"Please Tig, just give me a chance," Dean begs, "I mean…c'mon, man, it's not like you're that much better than me! I sank that blue ball, didn't I? That was a good shot. And you potted the white a coupla times! Please? I'm begging you!"

Tig grins triumphantly.

"Double or nothing," he says.

Dean takes a shuddering breath and Jax tries desperately to catch his eye; anxious to somehow warn his new friend that he's about to get hustled.

"I don't have that much cash on me. But I can get it," Dean says. He turns away to chalk his cue tip and flashes Jax a quick grin and a wink.

Tig puts a hundred down on the table.

"You win, you take all this. I win, we go back to your place to pick up your other hundred. Deal?"

"Deal."

Tig breaks and lifts his game a couple of notches. But still, he doesn't want the kid to realise that he's being hustled so after a while he deliberately misses a shot and gives Dean a turn.

Dean clears off the table and the blood drains from Tig's face as he realizes that he's the one who just got hustled.

"Why you….!" he launches himself furiously at the kid and suddenly Jax is in between them, his hands bunched in Tig's shirt as he attempts to hold him back. And then Bobby has his arms and Piney is standing in front of Dean who's holding his hands up submissively.

"Hey man," Dean says, "I don't want any trouble, okay? I guess I was just a little pissed that you took me for an easy mark. You can keep your money, okay?"

Tig is still breathing heavily but his color is normal again and he's starting to see the funny side. Piney's eyes are bright with laughter and Bobby is shaking silently behind him. He looks over at Dean again and wonders how he managed to miss the kid's hard edge; his too old eyes.

He got played, that's how.

Tig relaxes and Bobby lets go of him. He moves cautiously towards Dean, hands help up in a gesture of supplication.

"No hard feelings, kid," he says, "Well played."

He holds out his hand and Piney moves out of the way.

Dean steps forwards. He grips Tig's hand and meets his eyes and Tig decides that he likes this kid; he's got balls and then some.

Tig picks up the money and offers it to Dean.

"Just give me my fifty back and we'll call it even," Dean says.

Tig likes that. It's respectful. He shakes his head.

"Take it," he says, "You earned it; hustled me fair and square."

"You sure?"

Tig nods.

"Just don't try it on with any of my brothers," his voice lowers and his tone becomes deadly, "or I'll break both your arms, then make you my bitch."

Dean swallows, "Ten-four," he says with a nod.

"Okay boys," Clay comes across and Jax realizes that while he's been engrossed in the pool game and its aftermath all of the women and children have left the club, "time for you juniors to take a hike."

"Let them stay, Clay," Tig puts his arms around both Dean and Jax's shoulders, "Dean here was man enough to hustle me at pool in my own club room. Jax was man enough to stand up to me when I went after Dean. I say they're both man enough to watch a strip show!"

Clay is silent for a moment and then he points a finger at Jax.

"Do _not_ tell your mother," he says.


	5. Chapter 5

_**Full Summary and Warnings in Chapter One…  
**_**_**

**Chapter Five – **_**There's a bad moon on the rise**_

Sam leaves the teenagers to it and retreats to his bedroom. _His_ bedroom. That has a nice ring to it and it's the first time in years that he's been able to say it.

He's pleased, of course, that Dean's found someone his own age to hang out with and even though Dean's doing it under orders, even though making friends with Jax is just part of the job, Sam thinks they would've become friends anyway. It hasn't escaped his attention that Jax and Dean have a lot in common; an unconventional family which is not above breaking the law - or taking it into their own hands - when it suits; losing a parent; the pressure of being the eldest son, not to mention a tough, devil-may-care exterior that they use to hide all of the feelings and emotions they're just not comfortable dealing with.

So Sam's pleased that Dean has a chance at a normal friendship, but it's not going to make him feel any less lonely over the next few weeks.

Sam picks up _Adventures of_ _Huckleberry Finn_ with an air of resignation and finds his place; the slave Jim has just been captured. Sam reads the book through to its conclusion, then shuts it and frowns. He enjoyed it over all, he thinks, but he's a little disappointed by the ending. Mostly it's a book about freedom, but Sam enjoyed the earlier chapters more - when Huck was escaping from the Widow Douglas' attempts to civilize him and from his shiftless, drunken father.

Sam sighs. He would've liked the opportunity to discuss the book with Miss Jenkins, the librarian at Lincoln Middle School who recommended it to him. A wave of sadness engulfs him as he realizes that he's never going to see her again. And worse, he's still got four of the school's library books which he's not going to be able to return. Sam squirms uneasily. Maybe he could post them back? After he's finished reading them that is.

Sam goes across to his school bag and digs out another book to read. This one's called _The Outsiders_. Miss Jenkins thought that he would respond to its theme of alienation. Sam returns to his bed, plumps up his pillows and settles himself down to read. But he doesn't open the book. Instead he finds himself thinking about the day, two weeks ago now, when Miss Jenkins took a special interest in him.

When each class came in for its weekly Library session, sixty year old Miss Jenkins, with her hippie dresses, horn-rimmed glasses and blue rinsed hair, loved to sit them all in the Library pit and tell them stories about adventures she'd had as a young girl. The stories were make believe, of course, they all recognized that, but she was good at it, always coming up with something new and original; until, that is, two weeks ago when Sam recognized that the story she was telling them was a scene from Lord of the Flies. He'd mentioned this to her casually after the story telling was over and she'd looked really surprised.

"Did your Dad read Lord of the Flies out loud to you?" she'd asked.

Sam had laughed. The idea of John Winchester reading anything aloud to his children was hilarious. The only thing he ever read out loud was exorcisms.

"No," he'd told her, "I read it myself."

After that she'd given him a new reading list, 'some stuff that will challenge you' she'd said, and then she and his grade teacher had got together and made him do a whole bunch of tests. They were excited by the results and made several attempts to get his Dad in to discuss them; they'd wanted to recommend him for the accelerated learning program. Of course John was hunting in Sacramento by them, so it had never come to anything.

Sam still has the letter about it in his school bag actually, and if he was as smart as everyone seems to think he is, then he'd burn it. Because John will be furious if he realizes how much attention Sam drew to himself at Lincoln Middle School. Most Dads would be pleased if their kids were recommended for the AL program, but not John Winchester. Fly under the radar; don't draw attention to yourself; we do what we do and we do not talk about it. Sam has grown up with these mantras ringing in his ears. The only thing his Dad will see is that he's put the family under a spot light and that isn't a place that it's safe for the Winchesters to be.

Sam sighs again and opens _The Outsiders_.

Ponyboy and Johnny are up at the abandoned Church and Ponyboy has just dyed his hair blonde when John Winchester suddenly opens Sam's bedroom door.

"I'm going to get us pizza," he says gruffly, "any requests?"

"Hawaiian please."

John nods and disappears. Sam goes back to his book.

Later, when John returns with the pizza, he also returns with a slab of beer, a bottle of whiskey and a bottle of tequila. Sam clenches his jaw as he slides onto a dining chair, hoping to God that it's not going to be one of _those_ evenings.

"After our dinner's settled," John says, "we're gonna go outside and do a little night training."

Sam doesn't respond.

"Did you hear me, boy?" his father's voice is low and dangerous.

"Yes, sir," Sam says quickly, hoping his Dad can't hear the resentment that he's struggling to suppress. He'd really wanted to finish _The Outsiders_ tonight. His Dad looks hard at him but is apparently satisfied with his tone and Sam grins wryly to himself. What was that saying? When you can fake sincerity, you've got it made.

The night training, surprisingly, is not all that bad. It actually makes Sam feel a little like Luke Skywalker in that scene where Obi-wan Knobe is making him fight a probe blind folded. The trick is to pay attention with all your senses; listen for the pad of a footfall, feel for the rustle of air as somebody – or something - moves, smell the approach of perspiration, of the pheromones associated with adrenalin, and yeah, reach out with your feelings – your intuition. In the end Sam does well and, for a change, his Dad is pleased with him.

It's not that Sam is bad at hunting skills, so much as he's not interested in them. He's technically proficient, but his heart's not in it. Training bores him and it's obvious in his whole demeanor. Dean says that will change; that when he's actually out there in the field facing off with some evil son of a bitch, the adrenalin will kick in and he'll have a blast. Sam's not so sure. Dean, after all, has always loved hunting and everything about it. Sam admires and respects Dean, but he's not him. Much to their Dad's everlasting disappointment.

Back inside John heads straight for the whiskey and even though Sam was planning to retreat to his bedroom again, he thinks that maybe he should stay with his Dad. That way, if it looks like he's heading for a drinking binge he can try to head it off at the pass. The thing with the rugaru must've shaken John up more than even Dean had realized.

"Dad?" Sam queries, making sure that his voice is calm and respectful, "Jax mentioned that there haven't been any disappearances yet this year."

John pours a double shot of whiskey into a tumbler and ambles to the sofa carrying both the tumbler and the bottle. He puts the bottle on the coffee table, then sits and nurses the drink for a moment before patting the sofa next to him. Sam goes and sits beside his father.

"That's right, Sammy," John says, "the cycle doesn't start for another couple of days. It'll start up again the day before the full moon."

Sam nods.

"Is it a werewolf?

John shakes his head.

"The kills aren't messy enough. And it doesn't take the hearts. I'm pretty sure it's a vengeful spirit. But I've gotta do a little more research, find out who this guy was in life so that I can deal with him in death."

"Can I help?" Sam gives his Dad what Dean calls his puppy dog expression.

John Winchester takes a mouthful of whiskey and eyes his youngest son speculatively. He knows that he's hurt the boy by trying to keep the details of this hunt from him, and as much as he's been trying to tell himself that that's about protecting him, deep down John knows that isn't true. The truth of the matter is that all the victims have been too similar to Sam for comfort and after everything he's done to turn his boys into warriors he's just not ready to face the thought of them vulnerable; as potential victims.

"Please Dad?" his youngest implores and John remembers that knowledge is power, and that hard though it will be to discuss the details of this case with his son, maybe _knowing_ will be what keeps Sam safe.

John downs the remainder of his whiskey and puts the tumbler on the coffee table.

"Every February on the day before, the day of, and the day after the full moon," he begins haltingly, "a ten year old boy goes missing. Three boys in total each year. They're always found the day following the final abduction," John swallows, "They're always found somewhere in the Charming Cemetery, their throats slit and," John hesitates, "and there's always evidence that they've been interfered with."

Sam isn't sure what his Dad means by 'interfered with.' It sounds like one of those mild expressions that people use when they really mean something much worse. And given the waves of tension coming off John, Sam figures it's something really bad; and that scares him.

"What does that mean?" he asks nervously, "interfered with?"

John leans forwards. He picks up the whiskey bottle and takes his time pouring another double. He leans back, his eyes firmly on the tumbler as he passes it slowly from one hand to the other.

"It means they were molested," he says abruptly, and Sam nods. He knows what that means. The Winchesters have lived in some pretty unsavory neighborhoods over the years and Sam got the 'don't take candy from strangers coz there are bad men out there' speech from Dean a long time ago.

"The children he takes," John continues, his voice strained, "have all had a few things in common. They've all been from single parent families; all described as bright kids, but….sensitive. Quiet, read a lot. That sort of thing."

Sam nods as the pieces finally fall into place. This is why his Dad has been trying to shut him out on this one.

"You think I fit the victim profile," he says quietly, and John barely suppresses a shudder. In what sane world would a ten year old even know the phrase _victim profile_?

What his son says next stuns him in a way he didn't even think was possible any more.

"We could use me as bait, then," his baby boy says calmly.

"Or not," he adds, seeing the look on his father's face. It's stuck somewhere between terror and fury, and there's a lot of guilt in there too.

"Suggest that again," his father growls, "and I'll spank you again."

"You've used Dean as bait before," Sam says mildly.

"_Dean_ is fifteen; _Dean_ can take care of himself," his father says firmly, "Now drop it, Sammy. I mean it." His tone does not invite further discussion and Sam doesn't push it. It's not like he _wants_ to be used as bait. He just thinks it sounds like a reasonable, logical strategy.

"So what's our next move?" he asks, "Check the local obits for anyone fitting the suspect profile?"

If it had been Dean who'd just said that, John Winchester would've been swelling with pride, but hearing that kind of dry, professional language come out of his youngest son's mouth just depresses him. In all the ways that count, the kid's childhood is already over – has been for the last two years, really, ever since Sam found out that monsters were real and that his family hunted them. 'And whose fault is that, John?' he asks himself wryly, 'you can't have it both ways; can't keep him innocent and raise him to be a warrior.'

John pushes his conflicted emotions aside and smiles at Sam.

"I got wind of this hunt while I was on the Sacramento job," he says, "I used some down time then to check the Charming obits. No-one has died in the last fifty years who fits the profile."

Sam is frowning.

"So what's next?" he says after a while, "missing persons?"

John feels a tiny flutter of pride and a huge wave of guilt-inspired depression.

"Charming PDs got nothing," he says, "But in a town run by bikers that's hardly surprising, I guess. That's why I was questioning the locals. Someone, somewhere's gotta know something."

Sam nods.

"The Sons of Anarchy," he says, "You heard Jax earlier. If someone in town was molesting and killing kids they would've been the ones to deal with it."

John nods.

"So we change our approach. Use Dean to infiltrate the Sons and go at it that way," he sighs, "I've got a feeling I'm gonna be playing the dysfunctional Vietnam vet on this one."

He sees a look ripple across his son's features and he recognizes the kid's thoughts immediately: what do you mean _playing_?

John sighs.

"You should go to bed," he says, "get some rest."

"Yes, sir," Sam can tell by his father's tone that this is an order, not a suggestion. Besides, he wants to finish _The Outsiders_ anyway, which he can do under the blankets with his torch.

"Good night, Dad," he stands up, then hesitates, "Don't do too much _practicing_, will you?" he looks pointedly at the whiskey bottle, "you know, for that dysfunctional Vietnam vet you think you'll be playing."

John stares at him, eyes hard and flat, and for a brief moment Sam is scared that his Dad may just make good on his earlier threat to spank him again. Then John's expression clears.

"Good night, son," he says.

Sam exhales with relief, nods and turns away.

"Sammy?"

He turns back to his father.

"Yes, sir?"

His father is holding out the whiskey bottle.

"Put this away in the cupboard for me, will you?"

Sam grasps the heavy bottle and nods.

"Yes, sir."

John tries to pretend that the look of sheer relief and gratitude on his son's face doesn't cut deeply.


	6. Chapter 6

_**Full Summary and Warnings in Chapter One…  
**_**_**

**Chapter Six – **_**Gotta live this life**_

Dean awakes to the foulest smell his nose has ever known, and given the number of graves he's dug up, that's saying something. He quickly discovers that the stench is coming from Jax's foot, which is wedged against his face.

"Dude!" he smacks the foot away in disgust and attempts to sit up. The world spins, so he rethinks that strategy. Dean takes a deep breath, and a moment to take stock of his situation; he's lying on his back on a small sofa bed that looks to be located in a junk-filled spare room; and his entire right side is numb. This is likely because Jax is lying half on top of him, and okay, his head is up the other end of the bed, but still, could this get any gayer?

Dean eases out from underneath Jax and gets up off the bed. When the world stops spinning he locates his shoes and jacket and puts them on. Then he tiptoes out of the room, feeling like a complete idiot. It's not the first time he's crept out of someone else's bed in the morning, anxious to be anywhere but here; it is the first time the 'someone else' has been a dude.

Dean pauses uncertainly in a corridor. He looks right, then left and realizes that he's still in Sam Crow's headquarters. He opens doors quietly until he finds a bathroom, where he splashes cold water on his face while he thinks back to the previous evening. He remembers drinking beer; a _lot_ of beer, which probably goes some way to explaining why the world keeps spinning. He remembers strippers; and the memory causes the half-wood he normally sports in the morning to develop a life of its own. Dean's pretty damn relieved about that, given where…and with who…he just woke up. So what else does he remember? Beer, strippers…pizza? Was there pizza in there somewhere? And…oh…that's right. The bong. Jax had dared Dean to take a hit and Dean's ego hadn't let him back down from a dare. The hit had made him feel so mind-numbingly relaxed that he couldn't help accepting a second; and a third; and a fourth; and after that it all gets kind of blurry.

There's a wooden shelf next to the shower stacked high with fluffy towels, so Dean strips off his clothes and turns on the faucet. The water pressure is good and the water is hot. When the shower is steaming he steps in; lathers himself with the soap he finds in the shell-shaped dish and then lets himself fantasize for a while about the hot little brunette who'd given Clay a lap dance.

Ten minutes later he's toweling himself dry and feeling _very_ relaxed. There's a sudden loud rapping at the door and Tig yells, "Stop jacking off in there! I've gotta take a dump!"

Dean re-dresses quickly and then opens the door.

"I'm done," he says with a smirk.

Tig raises an eyebrow.

"So," he drawls, "you and Jax, huh? Thought _sausage_ wasn't your thing?"

"Screw you," Dean responds. As come backs go its neither witty nor original but it's all he can come up with at this time of the morning.

Tig laughs and pushes past him into the bathroom.

Back in the corridor, Dean peeks out at the main room of the club. It's a mess; bottles and glasses everywhere, ashtrays overflowing, a strong stench of vomit, and people, in varying states of undress, sound asleep on tables, sofas, the floor, and even a couple on the pool table. Dean raises his eyebrows. At least he made it to a bed, he supposes he should be grateful for that.

Dean turns away from the mess and catches the scent of freshly brewed coffee. He follows his nose down the corridor until he finds a small kitchen. There's a tall auburn haired woman in there, pouring strong black coffee into a dozen or more plastic cups that she's got laid out on the bench. She has her back to him, and it's not a bad view; her long, shapely legs are clad in tight, snake skin leggings, and her legs are made even longer by the four inch stiletto ankle boots she's wearing. Dean is about to make a lewd comment when the woman turns and he realizes that she's old enough to be his Mom. She also exudes authority and Dean knows instinctively that this is not a woman to be messed with.

"Morning, ma'am," he says instead. Polite is always a good fall back position.

She smiles.

"Well aren't you just adorable. Dean right?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Gemma Teller," she introduces herself.

The name sounds familiar.

"Jax's Mom?"

She nods and offers him a plastic cup.

"Coffee?"

"Thank you."

He hesitates. "Don't get me wrong, but I kind of got the impression yesterday that you weren't supposed to know about any of this," he waves a hand back out towards the main room.

Gemma gives him a sad smile.

"Oh darlin'," she says, "who do you think is gonna clean all this shit up? Clay? Tig? Piney?" She reaches behind her and picks up a packet of cigarettes; pulls one out and lights it. Her nails are bright red and dangerously long and Dean is somewhat reminded of a wendigo.

"What goes on at a club party, stays at the club party," she says, "I know that. We all do. But I've got the girls coming around later on to clean up so….I wanted to get here early and…" she pauses and then makes a vague gesture, "get the worst of it sorted. You know, get everyone conscious, get any_thing_ out of here …" she pauses again and Dean gets the impression that she really means any_one_, "that could cause some hurt."

"You're not mad?"

Gemma shrugs.

"Boys will be boys."

Dean hears a noise behind him and turns to see Jax holding up the door frame.

"Morning, Mom," he says, eyes wary.

Gemma's face softens. She takes his head in her hands and kisses Jax quickly on the lips, which Dean – _shudder_ - finds bizarre.

"You okay, baby?"

Jax nods.

Gemma straightens up.

"Well you smell like bong water," she says off-handedly, "at least Dean had the brains to shower."

Jax just grins at her. She hands him a cup of coffee.

"I can't say I'm all that impressed that Clay let you stay for the strip show," she continues, and Dean wonders if there's anything this woman doesn't know, "but then again I figure you've seen a few private strip shows of your own already, so what the hell."

Dean wonders if all mothers talk to their sons like this; and if all mothers know as much about their sons' personal lives as Gemma seems to know about Jax's.

"About last night," Dean says to Jax, and then flushes bright red when both Jax and Gemma turn and stare at him. Dean groans inwardly. He's just segued from private strip shows to _about last night_; seriously, could he have sounded any gayer?

"Is this a private moment," Gemma smirks, "do you two need to be alone?"

Dean swallows. "I just have some blank spots, is all," he mutters.

Gemma _tsks_ and turns back to the coffees.

"Last night," Jax says, "we watched the strip show and you very nearly got a lap dance from Mei-Lin, you lucky bastard. Then we went out the back, got completely wasted and fell asleep in one of the spare rooms."

Dean glances nervously at Gemma. He's pretty sure that if his Dad had just heard that sentence he'd be on the floor right now doing the first of one hundred push ups, with a couple of weeks of daily ten mile runs to look forward to.

"Right, uh, yeah," he says, "anything else I should know about?"

Jax raises an eyebrow.

"This is because we fell asleep in the same bed, isn't it? You telling me you never topped and tailed with another guy before? At a sleep over or a camp or whatever?"

Dean has never been to a sleep over before and he's only ever been camping when he's been out hunting with his Dad. But he's lost count now of the number of times he's woken up to find Sam asleep in his arms. That's different though; the kid's his baby brother and he's got good reason for all the nightmares he has.

Jax sighs.

"Well I hate to break it to you, sugar," he says, "but you're not my type. Besides," he grins evilly, "if you'd been my bitch last night, don't you think you'd be feeling it this morning?"

Dean just about chokes on his coffee.

"What?" he splutters, "you think _I'd_ be the chick? No way man! You're the one with long, blonde hair! You'd've been _my_ bitch!"

Jax's smirk is infuriating.

"Dude," he says, "you've given this way too much thought."

Dean decides to keep his mouth shut and maybe manage to retain the little bit of dignity he has left. Fortunately, Gemma comes to his rescue.

"Here," she says, holding out a tray of coffees, "do you think you can carry this into the main area without spilling it?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Jax rolls his eyes and Gemma smacks him lightly on the back of the head.

"You could learn a thing or two about manners from Dean, Jax."

"Yes, ma'am," Jax parodies.

Gemma shoves a baker's box of bagels into his arms and then shoos them both out of the kitchen.

The bikers subject Jax and Dean to some pretty hard core shit-stirring and innuendo as they hand out coffee and bagels, but Dean just smiles enigmatically and lets Jax handle it, which he does with a lethal combination of witty comebacks and obscene gestures. There's no malice behind the ribbing, Dean realizes; just the opposite in fact. It's the bikers' way of letting him know that he's been accepted into the fold.

When Jax sits down at the table, Dean isn't the only one who notices how gingerly he does it and the teasing ratchets up a notch. Jax hams it up and makes out that he's play acting but Dean is pretty sure that he saw genuine discomfort flash in the biker's eyes when his butt made contact with the chair. He's still frowning when he feels Gemma's eyes on him. She gives him a sad smile and he looks away, uncertain what's going on and not sure he wants to find out.

"What d'ya think?" Tig says suddenly, "Real or fake?"

It takes Dean a minute to focus on the magazine that Tig has shoved under his nose. It's a skin mag, and the centre fold makes Pamela Anderson look like she should be wearing a training bra.

"Real," Dean says, "Real silicone that is."

Tig nods and shows Dean the magazine's cover.

"Busty Asian Beauties," he says, "best value magazine on the market."

He sees Gemma giving him the evil eye and clears his throat.

"Yeah. Gotta go," Tig moves to sit with Piney and Bobby, and Gemma takes his place next to Dean.

"You okay, darlin'?"

He nods.

"Yeah. I should go though."

"Don't mind the boys giving you a hard time. They're harmless really."

Somehow Dean doubts that, what with all the Men of Mayhem patches the guys are sporting.

"You're welcome to stay," Gemma adds, "as long as you want."

"Thanks. But I've gotta go. My little brother….," he trails off not really sure how to finish the sentence. Most people don't understand how responsible he feels for Sammy. Whenever he tries to explain it he either ends up sounding like a big girl or his Dad ends up sounding like an unfit parent; neither of which is true.

His Dad just has a tendency to get very focused when he's on a hunt and he can forget to do one or two minor, housekeeping things: Like cook meals; buy food; pay bills; make sure Sammy has clean clothes to wear; send Sammy to school.

So Dean just takes care of all that stuff; has done for a long time. It all comes under the general heading of 'take care of your little brother.' And that's his assigned job as the only big brother the Winchester family has.

"I just….have to go," he concludes lamely, putting his cup down and getting awkwardly to his feet.

"Okay, sweetie," Gemma stands, "I'll walk you out."

Gemma watches the kid stroll away with her hands on her hips and a knowing smile on her face. _He'll break hearts that one_, she thinks_, has probably broken a few already_. She can see why he and Jax get along; they've both got big, tender hearts buried somewhere under all that machismo. Family's important to Gemma and she approves of Dean's obvious commitment to his.

"Nice kid," she says to her son when she rejoins him inside.

"Yeah," Jax smirks, "he hustled Tig for over a hundred bucks, so he can't be all bad, huh?"

Tig throws an empty coffee cup at him.

"Where did you meet him?" Gemma asks.

Jax meets her eyes.

"In the woods behind the golf course. I went for a walk."

Gemma nods and he can tell by her expression that she's looking for more.

He sighs. "I met his little brother first. Sam. He's about ten. Then I met Dean," he grins suddenly, "he's into classic cars. His old man's got a 1967 Chevy Impala."

"A black one?" Bobby asks, "I saw that it in town yesterday. Sweet ride."

Jax nods. "He knows a thing or two about engines too. His old man's a mechanic."

Gemma frowns.

"Why are they in Charming? Do they have family here?"

Jax shrugs.

"I don't think so. Apparently they move around a lot. His old man's been a bit of a nomad ever since Dean's Mom died."

"Those boys don't have a Mom?" Gemma looks as though her heart is going to break.

Jax shakes his head.

"She died when they were little. I think their old man just kinda lost it," he glances over at Piney and then meets his Mom's eyes again, "he's a Vietnam vet and… I think his wife dying just kind of….pushed him over the edge."

Gemma nods, her eyes full of compassion.

"That poor man; those poor, poor boys," she croons, "They must be so lost."

And Jax grins at that because it means the Winchesters are in. Some people collect stamps; some collect coins; some collect dolls. Gemma Teller collects Lost Boys.

"I'm doing a dinner tonight," she says decisively, "Jax, you'll go over there this afternoon and invite them all to dinner."

X

Jax strides through long grass interspersed with dirt patches as he makes his way around to the large, car-part strewn backyard of Opie Winston's place; the only people who ever go to their _front_ door are cops, debt collectors or Jehovah's Witnesses. Opie is sitting on the back porch and even from ten meters away, Jax can see that his friend is miserable. The yelling coming from inside the house probably has something to do with the whipped-puppy expression on Opie's face, and a sudden ear-splitting crash makes Jax stop dead in his tracks. He whistles and then inclines his head when Opie meets his eyes. Opie gets to his feet, stretches, and ambles over to where Jax is standing.

They do the handshake/hug thing and then Jax says, "I'm running an errand for Mom. Come with?"

Opie glances back towards the house, winces when there's another crash, and then nods.

They take off quickly and Jax chances a quick sideways glance at his best mate. Opie is a lot taller than he is, broader too, and he looks much more like a biker than Jax does; baggy blue jeans complete with pocket chain, black combat boots, black tee shirt, black leather jacket, black Reaper bandana. The only thing that stops Opie from looking truly intimidating is his round, baby-face, and he's trying to compensate for that by growing – well _trying_ to grow - a beard.

Jax's lips twitch. Most days he teases Ope mercilessly about the almost ginger fluff gathering on his jaw, but given the crashes and screams coming from inside the Winston house, now is probably not the best time for shit-stirring. Jax wants to ask Opie if he's okay, but he doesn't want to embarrass him.

"So how come you missed the party yesterday?" he asks instead.

Ope is quiet for a beat, just watches his feet walking, and then he sighs and inclines his head back towards the house.

"This shit all started yesterday. Mom was…" he trails off.

Jax nods. "So we're not pretending I didn't just hear the entire contents of your Mom's china cabinet smash against a wall?"

Opie sighs. "Not like their little wars are exactly a secret, is it?"

"Dude," Jax is desperate to lighten his friend's mood, "you're gonna be eating off paper plates for months!"

Opie almost smiles. Almost.

"You okay, man?" Jax finally asks, his eyes concerned.

Opie rolls his eyes. "Peachy," he stares at Jax and sees that he's walking a little stiffly, almost as if he's in some pain.

"You alright?" he asks.

"Yeah. Just strained my back a bit lifting Clay's boxes yesterday."

It's an outright lie, but Opie doesn't question it, which is just as well because Jax has no intention of explaining what really happened.

"So what are we doing for Gemma?" Opie asks

Jax grins and tells him about tonight's dinner (which of course the Winstons are invited to) and then he tells him about the Winchesters. Opie can't help feeling a little jealous.

"Sounds like you and this Dean dude really hit it off."

Jax cuts his eyes quickly to Opie's, but his friend's expression is carefully neutral.

"Yeah," Jax agrees, "he's cool. You're gonna like him."

Jax is right. Opie does like Dean. His little brother too. And later on, at Gemma's family dinner, he finds that his old man gets on like a house on fire with John Winchester, and it's not long before the two vets are swapping war stories and getting smashed together.

The evening gets loud and messy, as these evenings usually do, and a little before one am, Opie helps his Mom wrestle his Dad into the car. His Mom slides into the driver's seat, all the while directing a shrill barrage of insults at Opie's Dad.

Jax, Dean and Gemma watch the car until it's out of sight and as soon as they're back inside, Dean checks on Sam, who's asleep in front of the television. He puts a hand on the kid's cheek and says, "Wake up, Sam."

Gemma is startled by how quickly the kid jerks awake.

"We going now?" he asks and Dean nods.

He ambles back into the dining room and heads straight to where his Dad is sitting, still at the dining table, holding a shot of tequila.

"One, two, three!" shouts Clay and both he and John lick salt off the back of their hands, down the tequila and then shove a piece of lemon into their mouths. Dean moves behind his father's chair and snakes his hand inside John Winchester's jacket, which is slung over the back of his chair.

"Wha' are you doin'" his father demands, spinning rapidly to face him.

Dean holds up the keys to the Impala.

"Gonna take Sammy home," he says, "You gonna come with?"

John Winchester frowns.

"I can come back for you later," Dean adds, "Of course then I'd have to leave Sammy at home by himself."

"No," his father says firmly, "you're right. It's time Sammy was in bed. Thanks Gemma; Clay. It's been...a good evening," he turns back to Dean, "Gimme the keys son."

Dean shakes his head. "No way I'm letting you drive," he says emphatically, "you're tanked."

John glowers and pulls himself up to his full height.

"_You_ are not 'letting' _me_ drive?" he says dangerously, "I think you're forgetting who has seniority around here. Now give me the keys! That's an order."

Dean sighs.

"Chain of command," he says, "when the squad leader's incapacitated, the second in command takes over. You're incapacitated, sir. Your orders don't count for shit right now." He waits a beat, watching his father process what he's just said, then turns to Gemma. "Thanks for dinner," he says and then pushes his little brother forward. Sam hugs her enthusiastically and Gemma falls a little bit more in love with both boys. Dean turns to go and Gemma puts a restraining hand on his arm.

"A word, please," she says and pulls him to one side.

"Are you old enough to drive?" she asks.

Dean grins at her.

"I've got a license says I am."

Gemma raises an eyebrow, "Show me."

He hands her his license, a cocksure expression on his face.

"Nice work," she says archly, "not a bad forgery. How many beers did you have tonight?"

Dean sighs.

"Two," he says quietly, "and the last one was more than two hours ago. I had a feeling I was gonna be driving."

Gemma keeps hold of his license for a minute longer, just long enough to make him worry and then she gives it back to him.

"Okay," she says, "but you call me when you get home; let me know you made it in one piece. I mean it, Dean. You call me. Okay?"

Dean nods.

His father mutters darkly about insubordination the whole way to the car and makes several threats to tan his hide when they get home, but Dean ignores him. Dean is following protocol, taking charge of the situation because his father can't, and in doing so he's following standing orders that his father gave him while sober. That's a lot more important than following any orders he tries to give while drunk and Dean knows he won't be in any trouble once his old man sobers up.

Dean helps Sam get ready for bed, puts his father to bed with a trash can and then calls Gemma. He's only been in bed himself for half an hour when his father starts screaming.

"Mary! _Mary! _No! God _noooo_!"

Dean puts his head under his pillow and listens as his father's nightmare progresses.

It's not long before he hears his brother's footsteps and then the kid is standing by his bed. His eyes are big, scared and pleading and he looks so like a kicked puppy that Dean doesn't have the heart to send him back to his own room, even though, at nearly eleven, his brother is really too old for this.

Dean sighs and lifts up his blankets and Sam is beside him in a flash.

Welcome to the Winchester version of a sleepover, Jax, Dean thinks grimly, all it takes is a nightmare.


	7. Chapter 7

_**Full Summary and Warnings in Chapter One…  
**_**_**

**Chapter Seven: **_**Shadow work is closin' in…**_

For the second day in a row Dean wakes up with his right side numbed by someone else's weight.

He opens an eye, peers at his bedside clock and frowns. It's only eight o'clock; why the hell is he awake so early? Dean listens carefully, alert for anything that may have dragged him into full consciousness, but everything is quiet.

Or at least it is until Sammy whispers softly in his ear, "Dean? Are you awake?"

Dean groans.

"Shut up and go back to sleep."

"But I'm hungry."

"Yeah? Well if you don't shut up you can go and be hungry in your own bed."

There's a brief moment of silence and then Sam does one of his loud, long-suffering sighs and Dean doesn't need to be able to see him to picture the look of disappointment on his face.

"I mean it, Sam," he warns.

"Yeah, okay," Sam sighs. He moves slightly and Dean is suddenly much less squashed. Most of his brother's weight has been lifted from him and it's now just his head resting on Dean's shoulder.

Dean echoes his little brother's sigh. The kid really is too old for this. He's going to have to start being tougher on him; make him stand on his own two feet a bit more.

Except if he's honest with himself, Dean knows that he gets as much comfort out of this as his little brother does; because he's only truly at peace when he knows – _knows_ - that his baby brother is safe.

He's been taking care of Sammy for so long now that it's like part of his DNA or something.

A lot of people would resent being forced to carry such a heavy burden of responsibility at such a young age, but truthfully, although he may grumble sometimes, Dean doesn't resent it.

And maybe that's partly because he knows the unspeakable horrors that are out there. Those horrors killed their Mom; their Dad risks his own life nearly every day to destroy those horrors and make the world a little bit safer for everyone, and Dean helps him sometimes.

Life is precious and fleeting and not a given, and Dean knows that better than most kids his age. And while stability, security and safety are now distant memories for him; long gone remnants of a life where Mom sang 'Hey Jude' to him, made him tomato and rice soup when he was sick, and cut the crusts off his peanut butter and jelly sandwiches; he's acutely aware that Sammy has never known a mother's love or the comfort of normality.

And that's another reason why he doesn't resent taking care of his little brother.

"Hey Dean?" Sam says tentatively.  
"Thought I told you to shut up?" his big brother replies gruffly, "Do you _want_ me to send you back to your own bed?"

But they both know it's an empty threat; that Dean doesn't have the heart to make Sam leave.

"I'm sorry," Sam says, "It's just….do you ever wish…..never mind."

Dean opens his eyes and sees the sadness in his little brother's expression.

"What?" he asks.

Sam sighs.

"Doesn't matter."

"No. It does matter. What?"

"It's just…Gemma's really nice. And….well….Jax's Dad died and now he's got a new Dad….."

Dean sees immediately where Sam is going with this and the pain that flares in his chest is almost unbearable.

"What happened to Mom," he says gently, "it really messed Dad up. He's not looking for a new wife. And there's no way in hell he'd drag somebody else into this life anyway; it's too dangerous. We're never gonna get a new Mom, Sam."

Sam sighs.

"I know," he says, "It's just…..."

"I know," Dean replies after a pause, and then he throws back the blankets, "C'mon. We're obviously not gonna go back to sleep, so let's get up and make breakfast."

Dean leaves Sam eating pancakes in the kitchen and goes to check on their Dad – _still sleeping_ – before taking a shower and getting himself ready. He's on his way back to the kitchen when a knock at the front door causes him to detour. He finds Jax and Opie standing on the door step and grins broadly.

"What? No school today kids?"

Jax smirks.

"Day off," he drawls lazily.

"Uh huh," Dean leans against the door frame, "And you're carrying school bags because….?"

Jax is still grinning.

"Didn't say it was an _official_ day off. We just figured that since you wouldn't be going to school today, it'd be a perfect opportunity for us to show you 'round town. Maybe create a bit of mayhem."

"_Mayhem_?"

Dean's remembering the club patches, and Jax rolls his eyes.

"Relax, dude," he says, "we're not gonna kill anyone! What d'you say? You in?"

Dean nods. "Sure," he gestures Jax and Opie into the cabin, "You'll have to give us ten minutes though, coz Sam's still eating breakfast."

"Uh…when I said _mayhem_….got a little action planned that's rated MA15+. Not sure Sammy should come, dude."

Dean's expression hardens. "Either Sam comes or I don't," he says flatly, "I'm not leaving him here by himself."

A loud snore from the direction of John Winchester's bedroom tells Jax that Sam wouldn't exactly be by himself if Dean went out, but he thinks maybe that's the point. Dean is reluctant to leave Sam to deal with their hung over father alone, and Jax can't say that he blames him for that.

"Fair enough," he concedes, "can we leave our bags in your room?"

Twenty minutes later the four of them are in the park, sitting on the roundabout, and Jax and Opie are lighting up.

"Did you know that they put arsenic in cigarettes?" Sam says suddenly, "how gross is that? As if the nicotine and the tar wasn't bad enough."

Dean snorts and claps Sam on the back.

"Thanks Geekboy! I'm sure we'll all live happier lives now that we know that riveting piece of information."

Sam scowls.

"Well they could try living _healthier_ lives!" he suggests quietly.

"So," Dean says loudly, flashing the bikers his most impish and disarming smile, "what's this mayhem you've got planned?"

Jax's answering grin is every bit as mischievous and beguiling as Dean's and Sam almost rolls his eyes. If his brother and Jax ever decided to start working cons together they'd be unstoppable.

"Payback," Jax says, his eyes gleaming, "See there's this rival MC called the Mayans-"

"Mayans?" Sam interrupts, "Like the Meso-American classical civilization that spanned Mexico, Guatemala, Honduras and El Salvador?"

Jax frowns. "Well…they _are_ Mexican, but-"

"Cool," Sam grins, "Did you know that the Mayans developed astronomy, hieroglyphic writing and the first calendar in the western hemisphere? And they built the most amazing temple-pyramids and-"

"Kid's a Goddamn walking encyclopedia," Dean interrupts with exasperation, "Dude, nobody cares, okay?"

Sam subsides sullenly and Jax and Opie stare at him with something close to awe.

"Anyway," Jax continues after a moment, "a bunch of their kids used to go to school with us but now they're working full time for Alvarez. Selling. You know?"

Dean nods. And hopes Sam isn't going to start asking awkward questions.

"One of the older kids, Miguel Fernandez – real big fucker - and a couple of his mates, were trying to sell into the school," Opie takes up the story, "so we, you know," he shrugs, "ratted them out to the principal. Coz we're such upstanding citizens."

Dean snorts.

"That explains why _they'd_ be pissed at you," he says, "why are _you_ lookin' for payback?"

Jax and Opie look uncomfortably at each other.

"They did a drive by later that day," Jax mutters, and Dean's eyebrows disappear into his hairline.

"They shot at you?"

Opie clears his throat.

"Uh…no. They…..threw bags of vomit at us as they drove past."

Dean and Sam snigger.

"Did they hit you?" Sam asks.

Jax and Opie suddenly find their feet fascinating and Dean howls with laughter.

"Oh man! That's so _dirty_," he shudders, "So what revenge've you got planned?"

Jax grins evilly. He jumps down from the roundabout, and rummages through a nearby trash can until he finds a discarded brown paper bag.

"The Mayans deal out of the scrap yard on Jefferson," he says, "Gonna fill this with horse shit from Oswald's paddocks. Then we're gonna put it outside the door of the scrap yard's site office and set it on fire."

"Nice," Dean nods approvingly, "going with the classics."

"And after we take care of the revenge," Jax looks smug, "we're gonna meet up with my girlfriend and I'll show you how to sneak into the movies here without paying."

It's a fair hike to Oswald's property, and they have to negotiate his electrified fences to get into his paddocks, but it's worth the effort because they find enough steaming, stinking horse shit to fill the paper bag near to bursting.

Back in town, they hide around the corner from the scrap metal yard and debate who should deliver the package. In the end, Jax gets the job. He creeps to the office door, silent and stealthy, puts the package down carefully, and takes out his cigarette lighter. He holds it against the bag for a moment and when it's well alight he jogs softly back towards where Opie and the Winchesters are waiting. Behind him he hears a door bang open, a cry of, "Oh shit," a loud stomp, and then a harsher cry in Spanish. Jax risks a look over his shoulder and sees Miguel Fernandez, face twisted in rage, shaking shit from his boot, flaming brown paper flickering at the cuff of his jeans. Jax sniggers and Miguel looks up.

"Fuck you, Motherfucker!" he screams, unholstering his Glock. _Oh shit!_

Jax begins to run zig zag, barreling towards the corner where his friends are waiting for him. He can see Dean and Opie, shouting and waving frantically and then his upper arm is slammed forwards and he stumbles. For a moment Jax can't work out what happened and then the pain hits. _Jesus Christ!_ Time slows down and sound does strange things; and his blood roars and pumps and leaks and nothing is making any sense. Jax gasps and blinks and suddenly time and sound make sense again. The first thing he hears clearly is Dean's frantic shout, "_Jax! _Move your ass you God damn sonovabitch!" And then he hears pounding, slamming footsteps hot on his heels and, _Jesus fucking Christ!_, Miguel _shot_ him! And now he's _fucking_ chasing him! Jax lurches 'round the corner and collapses against Opie.

"Sonovabitch," he hears Dean mutter, "Sammy…." Jax glances over at Dean and sees him make a complicated hand signal. Sam nods. A moment later Miguel bursts around the corner and Sam throws himself at Miguel's feet. The big Mexican goes flying, landing with a satisfying 'oof' as the wind is knocked out of him. He loses his grip on the gun and before Jax can blink Sam has dived for the gun, picked it up and spun out of Miguel's reach. He checks the clip, flicks on the safety and then stows the Glock in the back of his jeans with an eerily calm detachment. Dean, meanwhile has kicked Miguel hard in the head once, twice, three times, and the Mexican is not moving.

"Let's haul ass," Dean suggests breathlessly, "C'mon," he shoulders Jax's uninjured arm and he and Opie brace him like a pair of crutches and drag him away from the scrap metal yard as fast as they can.

"Where?" Dean asks urgently.

"Cemetery," Ope replies, "Gotta get a look at his arm. He's bleeding bad."

The stop behind a grey mausoleum and Opie removes his hand from Jax's upper arm, where he's been keeping pressure on to stem the blood flow. Jax's arm oozes, but thankfully doesn't spurt. Dean prods at it, triggering a string of hissed obscenities from Jax.

"Give me your bandana," Dean says to Opie, who hands it over without argument.

Dean ties it tightly around Jax's wound.

"Bullet went straight through," he says, "Took a chunk outta you as it blew past, but there's no bone damage. You're bleeding bad though. Gotta get you stitched up, buddy," he turns to Opie, "How far's the hospital?"

"No hospital," Jax gasps.

"Dude, you're gonna bleed out," Dean says patiently.

Jax grasps at his arm.

"Clay'll kill me," he says, "We had a direct order; no retaliation. Disobeyed a direct order," Jax's face is deathly pale and shiny with sweat, "Clay's gonna fucking kill me if he finds out. No hospital."

"You need _stitches_, Jax," Opie says desperately, "Or you're gonna _die_ of blood loss anyway."

"You do it," Jax mumbles and Opie blanches, "Don't make me go to hospital," Jax mutters weakly, "_Please_…"

Dean sighs.

"Stupid, stubborn, sonovabitch," he grumbles, "Alright, let's get him to the cabin."

"Dean?" Sam says quietly, "It's too far. He's not gonna make it. Not on foot. Not with us carrying him."

Dean nods.

"Then let's hotwire us a car."

"Tara," Jax mumbles.

"What?"

"Tara….she's ditching school….meeting us…at…movies…"

"Uh, huh," Dean says, not caring about Jax's rambling.

Jax grasps his arm weakly.

"Her place….closer," he gasps, "go there…"

X

Tara Knowles is touching up her lip gloss when someone pounds urgently at her front door. Her hand stills and her eyes widen in fear. Is it cops? Debt collectors? Social workers? Or did her old man forget his keys again when he went out to the race track? Tara glances at her watch. It's only midday, far too early for her Dad to be back.

The pounding on the door sounds again and she hears Opie Winston shout, "Tara? Are you there? Need some help; it's Jax; he's hurt!"

Opie sounds _freaked_ and Tara runs for the front door, heart pounding, wondering just exactly what shit Jackson Teller has managed to land himself in this time.

She wrenches the door open, almost pulls it off its hinges, and Jax, Opie and two other boys she doesn't know stumble in.

"He's been shot," the other guy who's helping to hold Jax up tells her without preamble, "You home alone?"

She nods and asks, "Who are you?"

"Dean," he's craning his neck, looking into the kitchen, "got a plastic cloth for that kitchen table?" he asks.

Tara frowns. What a stupid thing to ask at a time like this.

"I'm calling 911," she says, reaching for the phone.

"No!" Jax finally lifts his head, "no hospital. Clay…._please_…"

He's close to collapse and Tara doesn't know what to do. He needs immediate medical help, that much is obvious, but it's hard to ignore the terrified, pleading look in his eyes.

"Tara," Dean says softly, "Here's what I need: A plastic cloth for the kitchen table, a sewing needle, some dental floss and a bottle of whiskey. Okay, sweetheart?"

_Is he serious?_ Tara lifts her eyes to look at him and sees that he is, deadly so.

"C'mon, Tara," he urges, "our boy here's bleeding out."

Tara takes a deep breath and when she meets Dean's eyes again, she's all business. She grabs a clear plastic table cloth from a dresser drawer, covers the Formica kitchen table with it and wipes it quickly with disinfectant, before spinning around and putting the kettle on.  
"Get him up on the table," she says, then disappears out of the room. She's back quickly carrying a First Aid kit, a sewing needle and the dental floss. Dean, Opie and the younger boy have managed to manhandle Jax up onto the table, and he's sitting upright, leaning against Ope, while Dean struggles to get his tee-shirt off. Tara grabs a pair of kitchen scissors and cuts it off him.

"That works," Dean says with a grin, "Although now he's gonna need another top before he goes home."

"Got a couple of his in my room," Tara responds without thinking, and she doesn't like the knowing grin that flashes onto Dean's face. She expects a lewd comment, but all he says is, "Where's the whiskey?"

"Got something better," Tara replies, diving into the First Aid kit. She brings out a spray bottle of Dermoplast, a hospital strength analgesic, and hands it to Dean.

"Not all the whiskey was for _outside_ of him," Dean says.

Tara nods.

"Again, got something better."

She pulls a small bottle and a sealed plastic packet with a new syringe in it out of a kitchen drawer. She tears into the syringe packet and then begins to draw liquid into it from the small bottle. Dean peers over her shoulder.

"Morphine?" he asks incredulously.

"My Dad's," she says, "he's got a back injury," she turns to Opie, "Lie him down."

Opie and Dean slide Jax down onto the table, which isn't really hard because he's nine tenths unconscious now anyway.

"Do you know what you're doing?" Dean demands when she approaches Jax with the syringe.

"Yes," Tara nods and her confidence is enough for Dean.

He watches her shoot Jax full of pain killer with a practiced hand, and then she turns back to the kitchen drawer and pulls on a pair of latex gloves.

"That your bandana?" she asks Opie.

He nods.

"You want to take it off for me? Then," she hands him a rolled up bandage, "keep pressure on the wound for me with this, until I tell you to take it away."

Opie nods and Tara can see that he's shaking slightly. He removes his reaper bandana from around Jax's arm and Tara sprays the bullet wound with Dermoplast before nodding at Opie to reapply pressure.

"Someone sterilize the needle," she says, and it's the young kid who moves to do it, finding a glass bowl in one of the kitchen cupboards and placing the needle into it carefully before re-boiling the kettle and filling the bowl with boiling water.

"What's your name?" she asks him.

"Sam."

"Hey Sam, I'm Tara. You doin' okay?"

Sam snorts.

"Nothing here I haven't seen before. I'm surprised _you're_ holding up so well."

"Surprised," Dean adds, "and impressed as hell that you haven't fainted like a girl yet!" he's smiling at her in a way that's entirely too suggestive for Tara's liking, although she _can_ see genuine admiration in his hazel green eyes. She raises one eyebrow coolly and turns back to Sam.

"Nothing here _I_ haven't seen before either," she says softly, "bikers and their friends tend to get themselves messed up a _lot_."

Dean reaches into the kitchen drawer and he's donned a pair of latex gloves and threaded the sterilized needle with dental floss before Tara's had time to work out what he has in mind.

"What are you doing?" she demands.

"Gonna sew up your boyfriend."

"I can do it!"

He looks at her appraisingly.

"Have you sewn someone up before?" he asks.

She shakes her head.

"Well I have; plenty of times. So watch and learn, okay? Maybe you could take over keeping the pressure on while I do this?"

Tara takes the rolled up bandage from a white faced Opie, who immediately excuses himself and races for the bathroom.

Tara watches intently as Dean makes twelve small, neat stitches in Jax's upper arm, moving the rolled up bandage bit by bit as the sewing progresses. When Dean's finished, Tara cleans off the excess blood and then bandages Jax's arm carefully while Dean peels off his gloves and lobs them into the trash can.

"You're quite some chick," Dean says admiringly, "Can't believe you haven't barfed, fainted or cried yet."

Tara snorts and rolls her eyes. She peels off her own gloves, balls them up and manages a nice three point shot into the trash can.

"Yeah, well, I want to go into medicine when I finish school," she admits.

Dean's grin somehow manages to be both cheeky and seductive.

"Yeah?" he says, "I can just picture you in a nurse's uniform. In fact, any time you wanna play doctors and nurses-"

"You'll bend over so I can shove something sharp in your ass?" Tara completes brightly. Sam sniggers.

Dean's grin becomes even more impish.

"Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of _you_ bending over and _me_ shoving something-"

"You do _not_ want to finish that sentence," Tara says icily, and the look on her face reminds him so much of Gemma that it stops him cold, "I'm with _Jax_, Dean," she continues frostily, "how can you hit on me, with him lying right there, barely conscious?"

"Coz I'm a dick?" Dean offers weakly, "Sorry. You're right," he holds his hands out in supplication, "Backing off now. I just, you know, can't seem to help myself when I'm around amazingly cool chicks. Sorry."

Tara inclines her head. "Apology accepted."

"I bet you'll be a great nurse," Dean adds.

Tara frowns at him.

"Actually, I'm planning on being a pediatric surgeon," she says, some of the frost back in her voice again.

"Yeah?" Dean's treading carefully now. For a biker's chick, this girl is brainiac smart and independent - and perfectly capable of tearing him a new one if he pisses her off, "Pediatrics…that's kids right?"

Tara nods, her expression surprised.

"Hey," Dean says with a grin, "I may be an idiot, but I'm not stupid. So…what d'you reckon, Doc? Should we move our patient to a bed?"


	8. Chapter 8

_**Full Summary and Warnings in Chapter One…  
**_**_**

**Chapter Eight: **_**The crow flies straight…**_

Jax isn't sure whether it's the pain in his arm or the pressure on his bladder that wakes him, but he's soon convinced of which complaint needs the most urgent attention. He sits up slowly and barely restrains a hiss as the movement sends shockwaves of pain through his stitched and bandaged arm.

Jax takes a couple of steadying breaths and then swings his legs around and puts his feet on the floor. So far so good. He stands slowly, sways a little and closes his eyes to balance himself. He vaguely remembers hearing Dean's surprised voice saying '_Morphine?'_ before feeling a sharp prick to his arm and then…..yeah, that's pretty much when he went and passed right out.

Jax opens his eyes and concentrates on walking. The Morphine has clearly worn off, but the pain is manageable. Mostly Jax is just feeling a sort of residual grogginess from its effects. He makes it safely to the bathroom, manages to take care of business without causing himself too much trauma and when he opens the bathroom door to leave he comes face to face with Tara.

"What are you doing moving around by yourself?" she asks sternly.

"Had to pee," he lifts his chin, his grey eyes unrepentant.

Tara sighs. This is just so typical of Jax. He'd rather crawl through broken glass than ask anybody else for help.

"Why didn't you call me?" she asks softly, "I would've-"

He cuts her off before she can finish.

"I'm fine," he says irritably, "I just needed to pee. No need for you to come and hold my dick for me."

And then his eyes abruptly darken, his tongue licks subconsciously across his bottom lip and with a quick step, he invades her personal space.

"Of course if you really _want_ to hold it," he says huskily, "I'm not gonna argue."

He wraps his arms around her, wincing as the movement pulls on his stitches, and lowers his lips to hers. Pretty soon he doesn't care about the pain in his arm any more, or anything really except how great it would feel if he could just persuade Tara to –

A loud throat clearing causes Tara to jerk away from him and Jax spies Dean standing in the corridor.

"Hey Doc," he says to Tara, "we need to check our patient's stitches."

"Yeah," she nods, "I was, um, just checking…uh.."

"Checking his temperature?" Dean suggests, "with your tongue?"

A hint of pink makes its way up Tara's cheeks and Jax decides that he's sick of being ignored.

"Patient's right here, dude," he says.

Dean's eyes flick to his.

"How're you feeling?"

Jax grins suggestively.

"You really want me to answer that? Your timing sucks, man."

Dean looks genuinely apologetic. "Sorry," he says shortly, "but if you're up to it we need to see how the wound's going and get some Advil into you. Don't forget, you've gotta go home in a coupla hours and act like nothing's wrong with you, so..." He motions towards the bedroom and Jax sighs and allows Tara to help him back into bed.

Dean unwinds the bandage that's wrapped around Jax's upper arm and looks approvingly at the stitches. They're holding well; no oozing or leaking. He picks up the Dermoplast and gives the wound a quick spray, then nods, satisfied, and rewraps the wound.

"Nice job," Jax remarks, "You've done this before, huh?"

Dean meets his eyes briefly. He nods quickly, then turns away busily. He pops a couple of Advil out of a bubble pack, picks up a glass of water and hands them to Jax, who swallows the pills obediently.

"Okay," Dean says, putting the glass back on the bedside table, "We need to leave here in an hour," he flicks his eyes to Tara, "So you've got forty-five minutes. I'll, uh, leave you two crazy kids to it then," he backs out of the room, stops in the doorway and smirks at Tara, "You'd better give him the full cowgirl; he needs to stay off that arm."

He shuts the door on Tara's outraged expression, Jax's laughter ringing in his ears.

X

It's a little after four o'clock when Jax, Opie and the Winchesters walk into the Winchester's cabin and the first thing Jax notices is that his and Opie's school bags are sitting on the dining table. His mouth goes dry, his heart pounds in his chest and he starts to pray to a God he doesn't even believe in that John Winchester is not going to mention the school bags to Clay.

Dean meanwhile has picked a piece of paper up off the table.

"Dad's gone to see Clay," he says, reading from the note in his hand.

"_Shit!_" Jax says, and he hates the fact that the fear in his voice is so tangible.

"Relax," Dean says mildly, "Dad's not gonna tell Clay that you ditched," he frowns, "Why would Clay care anyway? You being Anarchists and all."

"Ditching's not the problem," Jax responds, "Ditching on a day when there were shots fired at the Mayan's scrap yard and then coming home with a bullet hole in me; _that's_ the problem."

The Winchester brothers exchange a look.

"Yeah, okay," Dean allows, "Sammy?" he turns back to his brother, "Hand over that Glock."

Watching pint sized Sam Winchester drag Miguel Fernandez's weapon out of the back of his jeans and pass it to Dean as nonchalantly as if it were a water pistol sends an unexpected shiver up Jax's spine. He's been around guns and violence his whole life, but the casual way Sam disarmed a huge, scary Mexican biker, the calm way he dealt with Jax being shot, it's just unnerving. No kid should be this together after a day like today.

Dean disappears into his Dad's bedroom with the gun and Sam catches Jax looking at him askance.

He smiles, eyes puppy dog innocent and brimming with intelligence, "Told you my family was crazy."

"Yeah, you did," Jax grins.

But they're not crazy, not at all, and by rights they probably should be.

Jax isn't stupid. John Winchester is some sort of mercenary, and he's trained his boys for the family business, the signs of it are all over them. Jax has met kids raised as soldiers before; the Weston kids spring to mind, brought up from the cradle to wage race war against the 'niggers' (their word, not his, Jax is with Martin Luther King when it comes to the criteria for judging a man), and they're warped little fuckers the lot of them.

The Winchesters are rational, compassionate human beings. They might be a little rough around the edges, but they're not psychopaths.

When Dean comes back they head out, Opie peeling off and heading for home when they get into town.

When they get to Teller Morrow Automotives, Jax sees Ranga the nomad standing, tattooed arms folded, feet apart, outside the door into the club rooms. Gemma is sitting at the small cluttered desk in the office, casting occasional troubled glances at Ranga. Jax makes a beeline for her and she plasters on a fake smile that he can see right through; something's going on and it's got Gemma worried.

"Hey, baby," she says, extending her head for him to kiss her cheek. Jax is grateful for his Mom's obvious distraction, it means she doesn't notice his slight wince when he straightens up and his stitches pull.

"Hi Dean; Sammy," Gemma's voice is faux-cheerful and if Jax's alarm bells were ringing before, they're a symphonic cacophony now.

"Dad left a note saying he'd be here," Dean says, tone and features carefully neutral.

Gemma nods.

"He's in with Clay. You know, I was just about to close up. How about you boys give me a minute and then we'll all head out to the house? How does that sound?"

"Sure," Dean says, "I'll just check in with Dad first."

"Sorry, honey," Gemma replies, "it's a closed meeting."

Dean studies her for a moment and then turns on his heel, ignoring her plea for him not to go in there, and heads down the steps, across the yard and straight for the front door of the club rooms. Sam is hot on his heels, and Jax follows helplessly behind them.

"Club's closed, kid," says Ranga.

"I need to see Clay," Dean says tightly.

"Orders are nobody gets in," Ranga insists.

"C'mon, man," Jax claps the nomad on the shoulder and produces his very best good ol' boy drawl, "it's just us."

Ranga shakes his head.

"I got orders, boy," he growls, "you understand."

Jax does. All too well. You disobey Clay's orders at your own peril.

"Okay," Dean starts to turn away, his expression forlorn, and Ranga relaxes. Which is exactly when Dean spins back around and knees the redhead in the balls.

"Fuck!" Ranga goes white and doubles over. Dean takes advantage of his lowered head, slamming the heel of his palm into the guy's nose and chopping at his neck. Ranga collapses to the ground and Dean steps around him and into the club rooms, with Sam close behind him.

"Shit!" Jax draws a hand across his mouth, then bends quickly and feels for Ranga's pulse. He's out cold, but his heart's still pumping.

Jax straightens up and hurries after the Winchester brothers. Several of the club room's tables have been pushed together and Clay, Piney, Bobby, Tig and John Winchester are sitting around them in a haze of cigarette and cigar smoke.

There's a half empty bottle of Jack Daniels on the table, and five tumblers with various amounts of amber liquid in them sit in front of the various men. John Winchester has a bruise blossoming on his left cheek.

"What the fuck is going on?" Clay snarls.

"Funny," Dean's grin is tight, "I was gonna ask you the same question."

Before Clay can answer, Ranga comes bursting through the door, blood and snot dripping from his nose.

"You fuckin' little shit," he screams, lurching towards Dean with his hands outstretched.

There's a quiet rustle of fabric and Dean doesn't even have to look to know that Sam is now standing back to back with him. Dean maintains a fighting stance and keeps his eyes on Clay, confident that Sammy has Ranga in his sights. There's a metallic click and then Dean hears Ranga say softly, "Easy kid."

Dean grins. Ranga obviously didn't think much of a ten year old in fighting stance, so Sammy has produced his flick knife.

"Dean?" John Winchester speaks softly for the first time since his boys entered the room, and Dean makes eye contact with his father.

"Stand down," John says, confirming the instruction with a quick hand signal.

"10-4; Sammy?" Dean says, and immediately drops out of his fighting stance. In a heartbeat Sam is back at his side, flick knife away.

"Clay and I had a bit of a misunderstanding," John continues, "but it's been cleared up now."

Dean raises an eyebrow.

"Got word that your old man was also known as John Scully of the FBI," Clay clarifies, "wanted an explanation."

"So I told him about Pastor Jim," John says, his fingers flicking and tapping rapidly, in what appears to be a nervous habit, but is really a coded communication.

"Sammy," Clay drawls, "why don't _you_ tell us why your Daddy came to town?"

Sam looks at John for a long moment. He isn't as fluent with the hand signals as Dean is, but he thinks he's got the story straight. Sam swallows. For all he complains about being kept out of the loop and treated like a baby, the pressure to get this right is making him feel queasy. "We've got a friend out in Minnesota; Pastor Jim," he begins tentatively, eyes on his Dad for any more coded messages, "and one of his parishioners told him about the kids getting kidnapped and killed in Charming. He said it happened every year on the same three days. And Pastor Jim told my Dad about it because he thought my Dad could maybe help."

"What's this parishioner's name?" Clay demands.

Sam shrugs.

"No idea. I'm just a kid; they barely tell me anything," and there's enough bitterness in his tone that no-one doubts he's telling the truth.

"Why did this Father Jim think your Dad could help?"

Sam looks at his Dad again, then says, "It sounded like our sort of thing."

Clay stares at Sam for a very long time. The kid oozes innocence and sincerity. He flicks his eyes to Dean, and he's reminded of a Doberman on a leash. One word from John, and Clay has no doubt that Dean will attack. He'll do some damage too; the state Ranga's in is testament to that.

Clay turns his gaze back to Sam.

"I think you better tell me, son, just exactly what you mean by '_our sort of thing_.'"

Sam smiles. "Rule number one. We do what we do and we do not talk about it."

"Oh really? And why's that?"

Dean snorts.

"Because people would think we were crazy."

"Yeah?" says Clay, "well somebody better start talking or this is gonna end badly."

Dean's eyes flash to John, who nods once.

"Once upon a time," Dean begins, "long, long ago…or maybe it was only a few years ago, we're not sure on that yet. Anyway, once upon a time there lived a very bad man who liked to molest and murder little boys. Someone took care of the sonovabitch, and I don't mean they bought him dinner and took him to a show. Now personally I'd like to shake the hand of whoever took that evil mofo down, but unfortunately, there's a problem. See the sonovabitch is back and he's pissed, and he's reenacting his crimes over and over again on an annual loop. In short, you got yourselves a vengeful spirit."

There's a long silence and then Clay says incredulously, "You can't _seriously_ expect us to believe-"

John cuts him off, "I don't _care_ what you believe. I just want to salt and burn the bastard and get out of here."

Clay looks like he's considering dialing 911 and asking them to send the men in white coats. John sighs.

"Look," he says, "If there was a serial killing, child molester in this town then it was you and your brothers who took care of it, not the law. Just tell me where you buried the body and we'll take care of your town's problem for you. You can believe whatever you want to believe, but I guarantee you that if we do this my way, three more of Charming's ten year old boys will live to see their eleventh birthdays. What do you say?"

There's a long pause.

"This is bullshit," Piney suddenly explodes, "Aint no such thing as ghosts."

"It fits," Tig says softly, "it's that bastard's MO exactly, I've been saying it for years. And we-"

"Shut up, Tig," Piney growls, "you're fucking crazy."

Clay looks at Bobby, who raises his hands, "I got nothing to say, brother. Sounds crazy, but…" he shrugs.

"Yeah," says Tig, "_but_…"

Clay runs a tired hand over his face.

"Jax," he turns to his step-son.

"Yeah?"

"Take Sam and Dean, and tell your mother I said for her to take you all back to our place."

"Okay," Jax turns to go, but the Winchesters don't move.

"It's okay boys," John says, "Go."

"Yes, sir," they turn as one unit.

"You've got them well trained," Clay remarks admiringly.

The last thing the boys hear before the club room door closes behind them is Clay telling Ranga to clean himself up and then dial them up some pizza.

X

The car trip is quiet and strained. At Jax's place the boys troop silently in behind Gemma who drops her purse on the kitchen bench then whirls to face them, hands on hips.

"You boys must be hungry," she fusses, "long day and all. How about I fix you some mac and cheese?"

"Thank you," Dean says, "That would be nice."

Gemma smiles, ruffles Sam's hair and then shoos them out of the kitchen.

The Winchesters follow Jax down the hall to his bedroom, where he stows his school bag. His walls are covered with pictures of motor cycles, mostly Harley Davidsons, and Dean grins when he notices that several of the bikes have hot, naked chicks draped over them. Sam notices the girls too and his cheeks flush slightly. There's a high backed leather chair in the corner of Jax's room and Sam backs into it and sits down. He studies the Jim Beam quilt cover on Jax's bed and tries not to think about the porn on the walls.

"Nice pictures," Dean smirks.

"You like the motor cycles?"

Dean shrugs, "I like the naked chicks. Let's check your stitches again."

Jax rolls his eyes.

"Man, you're worse than Gemma with your fussing."

"You got _shot_," Dean says pointedly, "And you got stitched up on a kitchen table. I just wanna keep an eye on the wound; make sure it didn't get infected. But hey, it's your arm."

Jax sighs and peels off his shirt, wincing slightly as the movement causes his arm to throb. Dean's eyes narrow with concern and Jax barely restrains another eye roll.

"I'm fine," he says tightly.

"Annoying, isn't it?" Sam remarks.

Dean ignores him. He rolls up the sleeve of Jax's tee shirt, then begins to unwind the bandage.

Sam looks at Jax.

"Dean's just as stubborn whenever _he_ gets hurt; hates anybody trying to take care of him. I swear that one day I'm gonna be putting the words: "I'm fine – seriously" on his tombstone."

"You got that antiseptic?" Dean is studiously avoiding his brother.

Jax digs it out of the pocket of his jeans and hands it to the older Winchester.

The cold liquid spray makes him shiver, but Dean looks satisfied as he rewinds the bandage.

"Just make sure you keep it clean and dry and spray it with Dermoplast regularly," he instructs.

"So," Jax clears his throat. He wants to ask Dean if he was really, honest-to-God for real when he said that it was a vengeful spirit that killed those kids. But he feels kind of stupid. It _can't_ be real, right? Ghosts aren't real. The whole thing is nuts. He just….he won't mention it. But Dean and Sam are looking at him expectantly so he's got to say something.

"Do, uh, do you like motor cycles?"

Dean meets his eyes and it's obvious from the way his mouth twitches that he knows that wasn't what Jax was originally planning to say. He shrugs.

"Honestly?" he says, "I think anyone who needs to put a hunk of hard, shiny, throbbing metal between their legs has gotta be compensating for something, but hey, whatever turns you on, right?"

Jax's mouth falls open. He can't believe Dean just dissed him right to his face like that.

"Yeah?" he says softly, "Well I've never had any complaints. And dude? Putting a girl on the back of my bike and taking her for a long, hard ride has _never_ failed to get me laid."

Jax can hear Sammy Winchester squirming with embarrassment, and he's sorry for making the kid uncomfortable but there's no way he's letting Dean off the hook.

"So," he adds, "whenever you think you're ready to grow a pair, try stepping out of your nice, safe little metal box and give a _real_ man's ride a go. Feel what it's like to have the wind in your hair, risk coming at you from every side, and to know in your gut that the only thing between you and the road – between life and a bloody, messy death - is your own skill. Then you come and talk to me about compensating."

Dean glowers.

"My baby," he says heatedly, "is a creature of class and beauty; aint no comparison between her and one of your little crotch rockets. And for the record? Taking a girl for a long, leisurely drive, parking somewhere beautiful, then climbing into the back seat has never failed to get _me_ laid."

"Dean!" Sam whines, "Too much information! I have to _sit_ in the back seat, dude!"

Dean shoots him an apologetic glance, then rounds on Jax again.

"And like I said the other day; I got enough things trying to kill me already. I don't need to get up close and personal with a _road_ to get my adrenalin high. I spend my life getting up close and personal with things a helluva lot scarier than asphalt!"

There's an awkward silence for a beat and then Dean says casually,

"Oh and by the way, Jax. The answer to that question you were too much of a pussy to ask? It's yes. Ghosts _are_ real."

For some reason Jax looks to Sam for confirmation. Maybe that's because the kid radiates honesty and integrity or maybe it's because Dean is angry and intense and invading his personal space and he has to look away.

Sam nods at him.

"They are. So are rawheads, changelings, rugarus, demons and werewolves."

Jax hears but he doesn't believe. It's just….it's too insane. He runs a hand across his mouth and then sits down heavily on his bed.

"Werewolves?" he says skeptically, "What – no vampires?"

"We're pretty sure they're extinct," Dean replies seriously.

"This is _nuts_!" Jax explodes, "This is…c'mon…seriously? It's….it's…._insane_!"

Dean makes a scornful noise.

"Yeah, whatever, dude."

Jax looks up at him.

"Kids _died_," he says, "In a really fucked up way. It's not funny to bullshit about this sorta shit."

Dean sits next to him on the bed.

"You're a pretty good judge of character, right? Heir to the Sam Crow throne and all, you have to be, right?"

Jax shrugs.

"I guess."

Dean leans in close and nails him to the spot with two hazel green orbs.

"Look into my eyes," he says, "and tell me if I'm lying. Ghosts. Are. Real. And if they're angry enough, they kill."

Jax draws in a deep, involuntary breath and shudders slightly.  
"Okay," he says, "This is nuts, but okay. So….how do you, uh, how do you kill them?"


	9. Chapter 9

_**Thank you Flaca514 for your reviews…it's lovely to get some feedback! Where to from here? you asked...here is the answer… **_

_**Full Summary and Warnings in Chapter One…  
**_**_**

**Chapter Nine – **_**Highway to Hell**_

Twin rumblings have all three boys sitting straighter on the sofa. One of the rumblings Gemma recognizes as the growl of Clay's Harley, the other is a lower pitched rumble that can only come from a classic, V8.

Gemma is on her feet and at the front door, before any of the boys can even think about moving. Whatever went down today, it wasn't anything good. Clay learnt something about John Winchester which had him punching walls and swearing and Gemma knows that Clay's going to need her support. She hopes that it's John driving the Impala and that he's not comatose – or worse - in its trunk.

That's partly why she's at the door so quickly. If she needs to go into damage control mode, she needs to be properly placed. And if Clay and the boys have had to 'deal' with John, then in-between Clay and Dean is the best place for Gemma to be; she may be wrong, but she suspects the boy's been too well brought up to hit a woman.

As soon as she opens the door she can see Clay fumbling for his door key on the flood-lit porch, but it's the man behind him who attracts Gemma's attention.

John Winchester looks tired, and his face is bruised, but he seems composed.

"Hey baby," Gemma murmurs to Clay as he steps past her into the house. She touches his arm gently to let him know she's here for him, and then reaches for John and pulls him into a hug.

"It's really good to see you again," she says, as though it's been a while since she saw him. Actually they spoke earlier in the day when he stopped in at the office on his way to see Clay. He'd wanted to thank her for dinner – and to apologize for drinking too much.

John smiles, a genuine smile which lights up his face.

"You too," he says with feeling, and Gemma realizes that he knows how close he came to a shallow grave, and can see that she does too.

John spots his sons sitting motionless on the sofa and waves them over.

"C'mon boys," he says, "It's time we got going."

"Don't be silly, John," Gemma waves the boys back down, "I've got a casserole warming on the stove. I fed the boys earlier, but we can eat now."

"Thank you, but that's really not necess-"

"Oh please," Gemma interrupts, shooing John towards the kitchen, "you've gotta eat right? And don't tell me that a hearty, home cooked casserole and fresh baked bread isn't a damn sight better than anything you've got waiting at home."

"Yeah, but-"

Gemma puts her hands on her hips and gives him a look.

"Go and wash up," she orders, gesturing towards the guest powder room. Clay has just come out of it and is now unholstering his guns and putting them in a large wooden bowl that sits on the kitchen dresser.

John hesitates and Gemma's eyes narrow.

"Don't make me get my wooden spoon!" she threatens jokingly.

At least John assumes she's joking. Either way, he knows he's beaten.

"Yes ma'am," he says resignedly, and Clay laughs.

"Some people think I'm the scary one in the family," he says, "They don't know my old lady!"

As John Winchester heads out to the powder room, Gemma sees Dean and Sam looking at her in amazement and she gives them a wink, earning herself twin grins.

The Winchester boys may be surprised by Gemma's ability to handle their pig-headed father, but she's been handling stubborn alpha males who think basic human needs like eating, sleeping and recovering from injuries don't apply to them, since she was Dean's age; and she's good at it.

The casserole and fresh baked bread is every bit as tasty as it sounded, and John has two helpings, along with a beer. Gemma tactfully steers all conversation away from anything controversial and plays hostess with her usual aplomb. The boys, bless them, are street-smart enough to sense the underlying tension and keep their noses out of the dining room, although Gemma can tell that all three of them are dying sick to know what happened in the club rooms after they were ordered out.

The telephone rings and Gemma excuses herself and goes to answer it. As soon as she's gone John leans in towards Clay.

"Look," he says, "We could go now, just you and me. The boys could stay here as insurance."

Clay raises his eyebrows. He pushes his chair back and stalks to the fridge, snags two long necks, and slides one across the table to John.

"That's not how we do things," he says, "We took a vote."

John twists the top off his beer and takes a swig.

"I know you guys voted," he acknowledges, "but the others wouldn't have to know. What harm could it do?"

"Clay?" Jax gets up from the sofa and approaches his step father; Dean and Sam follow a step behind him, "For what it's worth, I trust these guys. And I know it's twelve kinds of crazy, but I believe them too."

Clay meets his step son's eyes and John can see that Jax's confidence in them is worth something to him. When it comes to assessing someone's character, Clay trusts the kid's judgement, maybe not as much as John trusts Dean's, but still, it's something he can work with.

"What've you got to lose, Clay?" John pushes, "Best case scenario, we make sure there are no more killings. Worse case scenario, I just burn some bones. So what?" He leans forwards, eyes intense, "You can move the remains before the boys and I leave town; hell you can bring me back here, have Tig keep an eye on me and the boys and go and move whatever's left straight away. There'll be no way I can give any meaningful information to the authorities that way and there'll be no risk to you and the club. What d'you say?"

Clay rubs a tired hand over his face. God help him, he's actually considering helping John Winchester to salt and burn a corpse. Jax is right. This is twelve different kinds of crazy.

"Clay?" Gemma walks into the room, her face stricken, "that was Tammy Doherty. Luka's gone missing."

Clay locks eyes with John.

"Luka's a ten year old boy?" John queries softly.

Clay nods and then pounds the table so hard with his fist that several beans jump off his plate.

"Okay," he says, "You win, John. We do this your way."

"Me and Dean are coming too," says Jax.

"The hell you are," Clay hisses, sending his chair flying in his haste to get to his feet.

Jax stands his ground.

"I know what to do. Dean told me. We can help."

"And you need someone to watch your back, Dad," Dean adds.

"I have Clay," John says, "You'll stay here."

"Clay's a civilian," Dean scoffs.

Clay frowns at Dean.

"I did a tour of 'nam," he says, "and I'm the president of an outlaw bikers' club; a one percenter. I'm hardly a 'civilian.'"

"Clay and I have got this, Dean. You'll stay here. That's an order."

Dean shuts his mouth. Jax however, isn't done arguing his case yet.

"C'mon, Clay," he wheedles, "It'd go quicker with four of us; be safer too."

"I said NO!" Clay shouts.

"Why the HELL not?" Jax shouts back.

Clay and Jax are toe to toe now and John is painfully reminded of his own relationship with his youngest son. A ten year old Sammy is still young enough to be easily constrained; a _teenaged_ Sam on the other hand… John almost shudders….he's not looking forward to that. Up until now John has considered Jax and Dean to be kindred spirits. He now sees that Jax, like Sam, has a stubborn, self-righteous streak, and he's probably a lot more introspective than people think too; a smart kid behind his tough-guy image.

"Why not?" Clay barks, "Because I damn well said so! And if that's too hard for you to understand, then maybe my belt should explain it to your ass!"

Okay. Time for someone with a cooler head to intervene and the irony of the fact that that's him in this instance is not lost on John Winchester.

"Jax," he puts a hand on the kid's shoulder, "This asshole rapes and murders boys. Now you and Dean may be a few years older than his preferred victim type but if he's feeling threatened – and we're gonna make him feel threatened – then he might just grab whoever's closest to his requirements. And he could do some damage before _we_ damage _him_. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Jax nods.

"Besides," John adds, "He needs three victims and Sammy here – well – he fits the victim profile exactly. I need you and Dean here keeping an eye on him. Okay?"

John's eyes flash quickly to Sam's, giving him an apologetic look. The last thing he needs is for Sam to now start pitching a fit because he doesn't think he needs anyone to look after him. Fortunately, Sam is on the same page as John for a change and he just gives his Dad a wry smile.

Jax nods again.

"Dad?" Sam says, "What about Luka? While you're taking care of…the guy…shouldn't somebody be looking for Luka?"

Clay nods.

"I'll get Tig onto it."

He makes a quick phone call and then he and John Winchester make a hasty exit, leaving a distressed Gemma and the boys floundering in their wake.

"How about I make a big bowl of popcorn?" Gemma finally suggests, "Ghostbusters is on tv tonight; how about we watch that?"

For some reason the boys find this suggestion hilarious.

X

_Jonas Montgomery was a non-descript, cardigan-wearing librarian, and a volunteer worker at the local after-school child care program. He was barely five foot six and skinny with it; he had thin, sandy hair, wore round, wire-framed glasses and had an eminently forgettable face. His Momma had died giving birth to him, and to say that Jonas was a disappointment to his father, a barrel-chested, six foot tall lumber jack, was an understatement. Jonas Montgomery Senior was a hard man and he'd been hard on the boy; more than once his teachers had noticed bruises on his young body, but they'd made allowances. His father was raising the boy himself, after all, and that wasn't easy for a man. So they'd let it go. The kid was quiet and well-behaved, and he was smart. He'd had a rough start, his teachers allowed, but he'd be alright in the end. And so it had proved – at least for a while. He'd gone away to college and then come home and settled into a nice cushy job at the local library. It had taken the Sons far too long to unmask him as the pedophile serial killer terrorizing the town. Jonas had wept openly as John Teller, Clay, Tig and the father of his latest victim had dragged him to a patch of vacant, tree-straggled county land. He'd told them through his tears that his Daddy hadn't just abused him physically, he'd made him take his Momma's place in intimate and inappropriate ways; after all it was his fault she was dead. He'd pleaded with the bikers desperately and had refused to get on his knees when Tig had told him to, claiming that he was just as much a victim as any of the kids he'd molested and killed. He needed help, he'd sobbed. The victim's father had been moved by his pleas and couldn't go through with the revenge-execution he'd been thirsting for. Tig had no such qualms and had slit Jonas' throat without remorse._

As John reflects on the background information that Clay has just imparted in clipped, impersonal tones, the biker's voice issues abruptly from the passenger seat: "Left here," Clay instructs, and John swings the Impala's wheel hard around; no such thing as power-steering in this old lady.

The moon is almost full and the light from it is almost sufficient to see by. John drives up over the kerb at Clay's instruction and parks next to a clump of ragged, stringy trees.

John opens the Impala's trunk and Clay barely manages to constrain a jaw drop. Holy _Fuck_! Winchester's got an arsenal and a half in there! Shotguns, including a couple of sawn-offs, hand guns, two dozen knives at least, and several swords. There is also a haphazard pile of two kilo bags of salt, three shovels, several liters of gasoline, several liters of water, a wooden chest which smells bizarrely like the local heath food shop, and a full-on field medics kit. There's also a pile of strange looking amulets sitting on top of a handful of big, hard covered, intellectual looking books. And ammo. A lot of boxes of ammo.

John sees Clay's look and grins, sheepish but proud at the same time.

"See that sawn-off?" he says, and Clay nods, "Dean made that when he was in the sixth grade."

Clay nods again. John hands him a shot gun and a box of ammo.

"The shot gun shells are filled with salt," John says.

Clay cocks an eyebrow.

"_Salt_?"

John nods. "It's a substance of purity. Ghosts don't like it."

"It kills them?"

"Nope. Just hurts like hell and makes them lose their grip on the corporeal form they're trying to hold on to."

John hands Clay a flash light and a shovel, then hauls a bag of salt and a can of gasoline out of the Impala's trunk, which he slams shut.

"After you," he says to Clay, and Clay leads the way to the shallow, unmarked grave where Jonas Montgomery lies restlessly. John watches him orient himself to various markers and count out paces until finally, the biker stops, and indicates a bare patch of ground.

"Here," he grunts.

John opens the bag of salt and pours out a large circle.

"Come and stand here," he tells Clay.

The biker scowls.

"Are you serious?"

"It's just a supernatural barricade."

Clay grinds his teeth and John shrugs.

"Suit yourself. But if things get hairy," John points towards the circle, "Right, give me the shovel."

Clay mans the flash light and the shot gun while John begins to dig up the corpse. Five shovels of dirt into the job the air suddenly goes cold and an icy breeze ripples through the still air.

"_YOU_!" a voice rasps and Clay freezes as the ghost of Jonas Montgomery glares at him with hate filled eyes.

"_FIRE_!" John barks sharply. His tone is enough to bring out the soldier in Clay and he brings his shot gun up and blasts Jonas with a salt round. Jonas howls and disappears.

Clay meets John's eyes and John recognizes the shock he sees in them; it's the look every soldier gets after his first live-fire battle, when he _finally_ understands that war is _real_.

John points to the salt circle and Clay walks into it, no argument, and holds his shot gun up and ready.

John nods and gets back on task. The ground is cold and hard, but Clay says the body is not buried deeply; two feet down maybe. John digs quickly, head down, and ignores the periodic shot gun blasts, some of which scatter salt over his head. It's a quicker dig than the usual disinterments he performs and John is soon hitting bone. That's when Jonas amps up his rage. Wind lashes John ferociously, debris flies at him and he's soon more focused on swatting away airborne branches than digging up bones.

Then Clay has to reload and Jonas takes full advantage, knocking John to the ground and seizing hold of his throat. He squeezes hard, his pale, haggard face only inches from John's. John grabs a handful of salt from the bag and throw it in Jonas' face. Jonas screams and vanishes and John struggles into a sitting position, gasping for air. He doesn't allow himself the luxury of recuperating for long though; Jonas is pissed and he knows this is all or nothing. He'll be back, and soon.

"You got my back, buddy?" he calls over his shoulder to Clay as he uncovers the bones as fast as he can.

"Sorry," Clay replies tersely, "Ingenious idea," he adds, "Putting salt in the shot gun shells."

And then John hears the click and boom of the shot gun and knows that Jonas is back and their time is running out. He tips a liberal amount of salt over the exposed bones, picks up the can of gasoline, pours it over the remains and takes a box of matches out of the inside pocket of his jacket. The wind becomes hurricane strong and it takes John half a dozen tries to get a flame, his hand cupped so tightly around the match that he burns himself. He lowers the match quickly to the grave and _woosh_! The accelerant takes hold of the flame and fire erupts, singeing John's arms. He waits for Jonas to flame into non-existence.

And he waits.

And he waits.

The ghost of Jonas Montgomery laughs at him.

"What the fuck, John?" Clay yells, "You said this would work!"

"Yeah. And ninety-nine percent of the time it would've," John yells back. He grabs the shovel, the gasoline and the salt and joins the biker in the salt circle, "Did you bury _all_ of him here?" he demands.

Clay looks at him like his brain must be out to lunch.

"Jonas' ghost is still here," John explains patiently, "So there have to be some remains somewhere else too, something that his spirit is clinging too."

Clay looks thoughtful.

"Would blood count as remains?" he asks.

John nods. "Sure, if there was enough of it."

Clay's mouth becomes a thin line.

"What now?" he asks John.

"We make a run for the car. Ghosts are fairly limited in the places they can haunt. They can haunt their grave site, their death site and sometimes another place or two of importance – their home, their work, some other place their spirit is strongly linked to for some reason. If we can get back to the car we should be able to get away clean."

John gets his car keys out.

"On three?"

Clay nods and they make a run for the Impala, Jonas flinging debris at them as they run. Once they're safely inside the car and away, John turns to Clay.

"So why'd you ask about blood?" he asks.

Clay is silent for a moment, then he sighs.

"Got a knife back at the club house," he admits, "the one we used to slit Jonas' throat. It's covered in his blood."

"Why did you keep that?" John asks softly.

Clay looks out the window, "It was an investment. The guy who came to us looking for vengeance, he's a local councilor. The knife has his prints on it."

John isn't sure he can look at Clay right then. John Winchester knows death; he's seen it, he's caused it, and if Missouri Moseley's intuition is to be believed, he's _been_ dead; but framing a grieving father for a death he didn't cause; that's just cold.

"We've gotta salt and burn that knife, Clay," he says gruffly.

Ten minutes later the biker is spinning the lock on the safe in the club's chapel and pulling a carefully wrapped, blood-encrusted knife out of a box.

John sprinkles salt on both sides of the blade and then strikes a match.

"Is that it then?" Clay asks when the fire has died, "Has he gone now?"

John shrugs.

"Honestly? There wasn't a lot of blood on that knife; I'm not sure if there was enough for his spirit to hold onto or not. Could be there's something else, somewhere else, that we don't know about."

Clay returns the knife to the safe and slams the door so hard it bounces open again.

"How do we find out for sure?" he demands.

John raises his eyebrows.

"We wait," he says, "And if another kid goes missing we know we didn't get him."

Clay punches a hole in the wall.

X

Clay is in no state to go back home. He's freaked and he's angry and he doesn't know what he's going to tell Gemma about all this….this…._insanity_.

And he has to tell her something.

The best old ladies, they know what's what. And Gemma is the best of the best. Besides, he needs her take on all this; she'll be the one who helps him get through it. So Clay ducks behind the bar and digs out a bottle of Jack Daniels and two glasses. He sits down at a small round table, pours two drinks and waits for John to join him. He lights a cigar as John lowers himself cautiously onto the chair opposite, and then takes a long toke.

"I'm guessing," he says finally, "that a man doesn't just wake up one morning and decide, 'Hey, I think I'll hunt ghosts from now on.'"

John sips at his bourbon; says nothing.

"So how'd you get into all this…" Clay waves an arm expansively, "bullshit?"

John empties his glass and reaches for the bottle.

"Every Hunter's got a story," he says, "Most of us don't like to talk about it."

The biker and the hunter drink in silence for a while and then Clay says, "It goes without saying that those boys of yours had a Momma at some point."

John's features tighten, his eyes become hard and dark and Clay knows he's hit the nail on the head.

"I'm sorry for your loss," he say formally.

John takes a very obvious deep breath and pours himself some more Jack.

"Her name was Mary," he says softly, "And she was my world."

"Was it a ghost?"

John shakes his head. "A demon."

"_Jesus Christ!_ There are _demons_?"

John nods.

"The demon was in Sam's room," John's voice hitches, "he was just a baby. Mary died protecting our son."

"Sounds like something Gemma would've done."

John permits himself a small smile.

"Mary could kick ass with the best of them," he acknowledges.

"Did you get the demon?" Clay asks.

John's eyes smolder.

"Bastard went to ground," he snarls, "but I haven't given up. In the meantime I'm getting me some payback by killing as many evil sons of bitches as I can find."

"Training the boys?"

John nods.

"That demon was after Sammy. I don't know why yet, but…my boys have to be prepared. They have to know what's out there and how to fight it."

"You're doing a good job with them. Dean's a good soldier."

John allows a proud smile to flit across his face, and then he frowns.

"Mary wouldn't have wanted this for the boys," his face shadows, "but then she didn't want to get killed by a demon either," he raises his eyes to Clay's, "I was a mess," he admits, "for months afterwards. Losing Mary, learning the truth. I couldn't even sleep unless," he nods towards the bottle of Jack Daniels, "If I hadn't had the boys….they kept me sane; helped me stay sober," John grins ruefully, "I still drink more than I should, but I'm functional. Dean understands. Sam... is less forgiving."

Clay nods. He's feeling calmer now, and maybe that's got to do with the amber liquid burning in his gut, but he also understands that his loss of innocence was fairly benign in comparison to John's. And he can learn from this man; learn so that if any more creatures that go bump in the night decide to make Charming their home, the Sons will know how to deal with them.

Because nobody and no_thing_ messes with Clay's town and gets away with it.

X

Dean and Sam are sleeping in Jax's room, Jax in his own bed, Dean and Sam top and tailing on a mattress on his bedroom floor. Dean's head is nearest to the door and John has to suppress a grin. Typical Dean, putting himself in between his brother and any possible threat.

"You see?" Gemma whispers, "they're fine. No need to wake them up, you can just sleep in the spare room."

"Dad?" Dean lifts his head, "D'you get it?"

John shakes his head. "Had a bit of a set back. We'll discuss it tomorrow."

"Okay," Dean hesitates, "Everyone alright?"

"Yeah. Clay and I are both fine. Clay spoke to Tig too. They haven't found the boy, but they're gonna keep looking in shifts, right through the night. Is Sammy okay?"

Dean nods.

"You need to get some sleep, Dean," John orders. He knows that his oldest boy has been lying vigilantly awake, keeping watch on his baby brother. Now that John is back he'll probably sleep anyway, but it doesn't hurt any to make it an order, because Clay is right; Dean is a very good soldier and if he's ordered to sleep, he'll sleep.


	10. Chapter 10

_**Full Summary and Warnings in Chapter One…  
**_**_**

**Chapter Ten – **_**On the Devil's path**_

John Winchester wakes up to the smell of pancakes.

He looks quickly at his watch and blanches. It's gone nine o'clock; he slept for seven solid hours! John can't remember the last time he got more than four hours sleep so this is impressive. He'd slept in his clothes so getting himself ready is simply a case of pulling on his boots and finding a bathroom. He splashes water on his face, runs his hands through his hair, then squeezes some minty paste onto his forefinger and rubs at his teeth before rinsing and spitting.

"Morning Dad!" Everyone is sitting at the kitchen table, except for Gemma who's tossing pancakes in a fry pan at the stove.

Dean looks relieved to see him.

"Take a seat, Hon," Gemma says, piling fresh pancakes onto a plate. The table is laden with jams, marmalades, a jug of maple syrup, freshly cut lemons and sugar.

John slides into the chair beside Sammy and ruffles his hair.

"You boys sleep okay?"

"Yessir."

Jax rolls his eyes, which doesn't go unnoticed by John.

"Spoke to Piney this morning," Clay says gruffly, "No luck finding the boy yet. And they've damn near turned the town upside down looking," he runs a tired hand through his greying, sandy hair, "What do we do next, John?"

John glances at Gemma, who offers him a wry smile. She puts a plate of pancakes down in front of him and takes the seat on the other side of him.

"Clay told me everything," she says.

"Everything?" he queries.

Gemma stares into his eyes, her lips pursed and her eyes hard, yet somehow playful.

"Never did like Jonas Montgomery," she shudders, "he always volunteered to help out at the Taste of Charming fundraisers and he always stared at the boys just a little bit too long. His old man gave me the creeps too. But Jonas junior," Gemma shivers again, "he had something real sick in him. A real disturbing sense of….," she sighs, "you could see it in his eyes. A sort of…weak cruelty. Him coming back as a ghost and picking up right where he left off? Totally in character."

John chews a mouthful of pancake thoughtfully.

"Most people don't take the whole 'monsters are real' thing so well," he remarks carefully.

"Yeah, well," Gemma lights a cigarette, "I've seen a lotta strange shit in my life," she meets his eyes again, "enough to convince me that there's real evil in this world. Besides, my Daddy's a reverend and he's been preaching hellfire and brimstone at me since the day I was born."

"Do you believe in God?" Sam asks her.

Gemma takes a longer drag on her cigarette, "Not so much honey," she says, "Coz if there's a God I'm really gonna have to kick his ass. I mean, what the hell does he think he's doing, letting so much bad shit happen?"

Sam glances at Dean, almost like he's seeking permission, before confiding, "Our Mom always used to say that we had angels watching over us."

Gemma's face melts a little, "I'm sure your Mom's watching over you," she says softly, "because when it comes right down to it, the only thing you can count on is family."

"Amen to that," John agrees.

Clay clears his throat.

"So what's next?" he prods.

"Research. We find out everything we can about Jonas Montgomery: Who he knew, where he liked to spend his time, what he liked to do when he wasn't…..," John breaks off and glances at Sam, "We need to find out what happened to all his stuff after he died; take a look at his old house too. We need to figure out where he's got Luka stashed and we need to know if there could be anything else still holding him here, just in case it wasn't the blood on that knife."

"What else could hold his spirit here?" Jax asks, "What exactly are we looking for?"

John shrugs.

"One job a few years back, the guy'd had an artificial hand; real good for choking the life out of girls. Salting and burning his bones did jack; I had to find the damn hand and melt it to get him to move on."

"Fuck!" says Jax.

John glares at him and Jax glances uncertainly at his Mom.

"Language," Gemma says mildly and Jax frowns.

What the fuck? John thinks he can come into _his_ house, sit at _his_ table, and judge _him_? Fuck that. Jax is an anarchist and a biker, not some choir boy. Just because John's got his own kids running around all yessir, nosir, three-fucking-bags full sir, doesn't mean that Jax is just going to fall into line and start playing soldier boy. Jax sneaks a quick glance at Clay. The man doesn't give a shit if Jax swears, smokes, drinks, fucks or steals. Although, Jax's lips thin, he does demand complete loyalty and obedience, and not just from his step-son. Still, at least he's not all hung up on good manners.

"The Montgomerys lived over on Tulip Street," Gemma says suddenly, "Moved to Charming from Lodi in the sixties. The rest of the Montgomerys still live in Lodi as far as I know," she frowns, "Jonas inherited the house when his old man died, and an Aunt came down and sold it about a year ago, once they had Jonas officially declared dead."

John puts his knife and fork down carefully.

"When and how did Jonas senior die?" he asks.

Gemma and Clay look at each other.

"Logging accident, wasn't it?" Clay asks his old lady.

She shrugs. "I think so. It happened not long after Jonas came home from college."

"We should look into it. Could be something; could be nothing."

Clay nods. "Where to from here?" he asks.

"I need to get into Jonas' old house. Can you arrange that?"

Clay nods.

"Gemma? You know the local gossip. Can you just….talk to everyone you know? Ask questions; see what you can find out."

"Sure."

"Me and Sammy'll hit the library," Dean says.

"No!" John's tone is clipped and abrupt, "Jonas worked there, Dean. That's the last place we want Sam!"

"Ghosts hardly ever break pattern, Dad," Dean argues, "and Jonas took his victims in the late afternoon. If we go over there in the morning, in broad daylight, if both me and Jax are keeping an eye on Sammy, then everything should be fine. Besides," he adds, "Sam's the one with the bad ass computer skills! We need him."

John's eyes bore into Dean's for a moment and then he nods curtly.

"Alright," he says, "but I want either you or Jax watching Sam _at all times_! And that's an order. And Sam? You don't move without Dean's say so. Take salt."

Jax grins broadly. "Man! This is so much better than going to school!"

He expects John to glare at him again and is surprised when he receives a grin of approval. Huh. The guy objects to him swearing but is completely cool with him ditching school to go ghost-busting. John Winchester is weird.

X

The librarian has to be fifty, at least. Her short, grey hair is tightly permed, she has horn-rimmed glasses perched on the end of her nose, and she's wearing a navy blue pants suit, with a choker of pearls at her neck. Sam spends a lot of his time in libraries and he knows her type all too well; they're sticklers for the rules and as sour as vinegar. Dean has a theory about why that is and just thinking about that theory makes Sam flush.

Jax is currently explaining to Miss Blue Suit, in hushed, confidential tones, that Dean and Sam are the sons of Clay's cousin John, and they're down on a rare visit from Maine, which is why none of them are in school today. His posture is loose and open, he's smiling widely, and damn if he isn't just about charming the pants off her. Sam flushes again. And Dean? Dean's flashing his most impish smile and lying his ass off, telling Miss Blue Suit that when Jax asked them what sights they wanted to see in Charming, the library was the first place they wanted to go. Dean's flirting shamelessly and Sam thinks that his brother's smile ought to be classified as a secret weapon.

"Libraries," Dean says earnestly, "are just so cool!"

"And plus," Sam adds, deciding to try for some credibility, "I've got a project to finish for school. And the library's got the internet. For research."

Sam has his own secret weapon and he uses it now. The look he gives the librarian is a lot less flirtatious than Dean's and has more of a 'please, please, you've just got to believe me because I'm so totally telling you the truth' quality to it. For good measure he does the puppy dog eyes. Apparently people find them hard to resist.

A few minutes ago Miss Blue Suit had come striding across, all steel wool and vinegar and jabbing fingers, her voice sharp enough to cut through glass. She'd called them delinquents and demanded to know what they were doing in her library during school hours. Now she's all marshmallow soft and voice like honey, ruffling Sam's hair and telling Dean and Jax that they're such good boys for looking after him.

"I can't believe it," Sam snarks when Miss Blue Suit finally goes away, "she's old enough to be somebody's grandma and you were totally _flirting_ with her!"

Dean rolls his eyes.

"Relax," he says, "before you can be a grandma, you've gotta have kids. And before you can have kids, you've gotta have sex. And I've never met an old-lady librarian yet who didn't need to get la-"

"Dean!" Sam hisses, "Shut up! You're sick! You know that? If it's female and it's got a pulse, you'll flirt with it!" Sam frowns, "Actually scrap the pulse part! You even flirted with that ghost-girl in Colorado!"

Dean grins.

"Technically she was a poltergeist Sammy, and you can't really blame me for that. She was hot! You know, for a dead chick."

"Man," Jax shakes his head, "your lives are weird."

"I know," Sam says forlornly. He pulls up the website he'd minimized when the librarian came across and starts making notes. Before long Dean and Jax are almost climbing the walls and Jax has started thinking that this is every bit as bad as going to school.

"Man," he grumbles, "this is so boring! Give me something to shoot already!"

Dean rocks back in his chair. It's one of those typist chairs on wheels and he wonders if he and Jax would be able to get away with racing them in between the book shelves. He sighs. Better not risk it. They'll be screwed if they get kicked out.

Every now and then Sam asks them to get something off the printer for him and Jax and Dean fight over the task every time, until Sam snaps at them that if they don't start taking it in turns he'll start getting the print outs himself.

"I'm taking a bathroom break," Dean says after a while, and he takes off before Jax can complain. He takes as long as he can and as soon as he gets back Jax slips outside for a smoke. Next Dean goes outside to check the car and feed the meter; and then Jax decides _he_ needs a bathroom break. As soon as he's back, Dean announces that he needs to hit the head; and then Jax heads off for another smoke. He feeds the meter again while he's at it which pisses Dean off. He goes outside to make sure that Jax did it right and to make sure his baby is still doing okay; she must be so bored sitting outside a library.

It's around half past one when they all decide that they're hungry. Sam doesn't want to leave the library because he has twelve web sites up on the screen and papers spread all around him, so Dean and Jax argue about who should go out and find them some burgers to smuggle into the library. Jax wins the argument. He knows the town better than Dean and besides, Dean doesn't really trust him to watch Sammy's back properly.

When Jax has gone Dean wheels his chair over beside Sam and looks at the screen.

"How's it going?" he asks.

"Fine, Dean," Sam says shortly, "Of course it'd be better if you two yoyos were helping instead of bouncing off out somewhere every few minutes."

Dean's lips twitch. "Yoyos, Sammy?"

Sam scowls.

"Seriously, Sam, what've you got?"

Sam stays sulkily silent.

"C'mon," Dean punches him playfully on the arm, "tell me what you've found? Please? _Please_ Sam?"

Sam sighs.

"I've got a shitload of background information on Jonas, mostly boring stuff. I found the name of the Aunt who finalized the sale of his house and got her address. I broke into his hotmail account too-"

Dean punches his arm again.

"Nice going Sam! You're the man!"

Sam grins modestly.

"Yeah well, His user name was Jonas Montgomery and his password was JM1963. So that was the email account he wanted people to find."

Dean frowns.

"Huh? Too easy?"

Sam nods.

"So easy an eleven year old could crack it? When Jonas was a Grade A pervert? And there was nothing pervy in there. It was all totally clean and respectable. So not his main email account. If I had more time….." Sam glances up at the clock and shakes his head, "Anyway, probably doesn't matter. I do have a theory about where he could be holding his victims. Nothing concrete yet, but...I'll explain it to you when I'm more certain."

Dean nods his head.

"Nice work Sammy. Just get me something to shoot at _soon_, okay?"

"Dean!" Jax yells at him from across the library, earning himself a 'sshh' from Miss Blue Suit, "The Mayans just egged your car, man!"

And Dean is out of his seat and bounding down the front steps of the library before Jax has time to even blink.

The Mayans are long gone by the time Dean gets out to the Impala and he's left to kick the curb and hurl empty threats into thin air. There are sponges in the trunk and holy water, so Dean gets to work as quickly as possible, cleaning the dripping egg from his baby and flicking away broken egg shells, all the while muttering furiously.

"Shit, man, I'm sorry," Jax says, "this is my fault. It's me the Mayans are pissed at."

Dean raises an eyebrow.

"Last time I checked it was me that kicked that Miguel dude unconscious. I'm sure your Mayan buddies are plenty pissed at me by now too."

The Mayans had only thrown a half dozen eggs at the Impala and thanks to Jax's early warning Dean has been able to get to it before the egg dries hard. From the time he ran out the library's front door to the time he and Jax are walking back through it again, car cleaned, is barely ten minutes.

Dean is still muttering threats under his breath, interspersed with complaints about the fact that their burgers will now be cold. He looks, finally, towards the computer where he left Sam working and it takes him a long moment to comprehend that Sam is no longer there. Uneasiness stirs in his gut.

"Sam?" he calls sharply, earning himself a glare from Miss Blue Suit.

"Maybe he went to the bathroom?" Jax suggests calmly, and Dean is already half way there, bolting across the library, calling his brother's name. He pushes into the bathroom marked M and sees instantly that it is empty. Still he looks carefully into each stall, searching desperately for….anything. He barrels out of the bathroom and knocks right into Miss Blue Suit. She tells him off for running and shouting in the library but Dean is barely paying attention.

"Have you seen my brother?" he demands, "I just left him for ten minutes and he's gone!"

Miss Blue Suit frowns. "I did see him head towards those stacks over there," she nods towards a row of shelves full of heavy, hard bound books, "perhaps he needed a book? Have you checked between all the shelves?"

And Dean is off again, racing towards the forest of shelves, calling his brother's name, with the librarian's scolding ringing in his ears.

Jax joins him and they tear up and down between the ceiling high stacks, Dean becoming more and more frantic as the search becomes increasingly futile.

"Ma'am?" Dean yells across the library, "Is there another way out of here? Apart from the front door?"

Because Sam has obviously left the building and he didn't come out the front door. The Impala is parked right outside and Dean would've seen him.

Miss Blue Suit is torn between wanting to tell him off for causing such a ruckus in her library and wanting to respond to the desperate fear she sees in his eyes. In the end the latter wins outs.

"Two," she says, "a staff entrance which you can only access from behind my counter and through my office and he didn't go that way. And a fire exit, but that's wired."

"Where's the fire exit?" Dean asks.

"It's wired," the librarian repeats, "we'd have alarms going off and the fire brigade on the door step if he'd gone out that way!"

Dean raises an eyebrow. He's cut through more than one fire door in his time. He looks around and sees the illuminated exit sign arrows. He follows until he finds the fire door, Jax grimly silent beside him. The door hasn't been tampered with.

They return to the computer where Sam had been working and Dean stares sightlessly at it. It's almost a locked door mystery; there are only three ways in or out of the building and Sam didn't go through any of them. And yet he's gone.

Dean's stomach seizes and clenches. Who was it had been stupid enough to say that the library would be safe? Oh yeah, that's right. It was him! _Ghosts hardly ever break pattern, Dad. Me and Jax'll watch him. He'll be safe._

And now Sam is gone.

He'd been on to something; he'd been chasing down a theory; he'd had an idea where the ghost of Jonas Montgomery was stashing the kids he snatched. And now he is gone too. Dean may not be the straight A student that his brother is but he can still put two and two together and get four. Jonas Montgomery has been haunting the library; lurking and watching. And he's seen enough of Sam to make him worth breaking pattern for.

"Goddamn it, Sam!" Dean yells, "_Jonas_!"

He closes his eyes. That sick sonovabitch better not lay one finger on his little brother or Dean is going to rip his goddamn lungs out! This is all his fault! He'd been more worried about his car than his brother and now that disgusting, evil, pedophile prick of a bastard has got Sam and he's going to…Suddenly Dean's legs buckle and before he can stop himself he's crumpled to his knees on the floor.

"No," he says brokenly, "this can't be happening."

"Whoa," he hears Jax say, "We don't know it's Jonas."

"Of course it's Jonas!" Dean snaps, "He's gone, Jax. That bastard took my baby brother!"

And then he feels tears falling down his face and Jax is putting an arm around him and murmuring some shit about how everything is going to be alright. Dean can't quite believe that he's having the mother of all chick flick moments in the middle of a public library with a biker he barely knows, but mostly he can't believe that he let his little brother get snatched by a child molesting ghost, right under his nose.

X

As soon as Gemma enters the Beauty Parlor, she's acutely aware of everyone's eyes on her and she holds herself just a little taller. Some of the ladies in Jolene's Salon of Beauty hold the Biker Queen in high regard; others can barely constrain their distain. Jolene Harvey herself comes across with a smile.

"Hey, Hon," she says, hugging Gemma and kissing her cheek, "what can I do for you?"

Gemma smiles. Jolene is a friend of the club. They helped her out a few years ago when the bank was threatening to foreclose on her business mortgage and she has always been grateful. Gemma genuinely likes the woman and always insists on paying for her treatments.

"You got time to squeeze me in for a quick manicure?" she asks.

"Sure thing, Hon," Jolene smiles and leans in conspiratorially, "I'll just bump that skank Amanda Lowell back by fifteen minutes and slip you in before her."

Gemma smiles. She settles herself down, let's Jolene soak her hands and buff all her finger nails and then she says in a loud whisper, "Did you hear about poor Luka? I can't imagine what Tammy must be going through right now. The boys spent all night looking for him."

And then of course the women are off, retelling everything they know about every other time this has happened, sharing theories, rumors and every other bit of speculative gossip they have ever heard on the subject. Gemma just sits back and listens.

"You know what I think?" Maureen King says, "You know that boy that went missing; Jonas Montgomery? Rumor had it that he was responsible for those killings back in the late eighties," she pauses and there are nods of agreement.

The whole town _knew_ that Jonas Montgomery had been responsible, just as the whole town _knew_ that the Sons had dealt with him, not the law. But most people just thought he'd been run out of town. Or so they told themselves anyway. Maybe it was one of those things that it didn't do to scrutinize too closely, but 'run out of town' was the 'official' town line and everybody was sticking to it.

"Do you think," Maureen pauses, perhaps for dramatic effect, "Do you think he's back?"

Everybody looks at Gemma. What they're really asking is if it's actually possible that he _could_ be back. They're asking her to confirm the 'run out of town' scenario.

"Yeah," Gemma says, "I think he's back," she leaves off _from the dead_, "And I think he's picked up right where he left off."

"Well," Patricia Jones says, after a suitable pause, "That's sure gonna piss off Laurie-Mae."

"Who?" Jolene asks.

"Laurie-Mae Miller. Jonas' Momma's sister. She had him declared dead so that she could sell his house. My Teddy brokered the deal. Now she'll have to give back the money she made from the sale."

"What happened to all his stuff?" Gemma asks.

Patricia shrugs.

"Probably went straight to the dump. That's what I would've done with it."

Gemma nods.

"You don't happen to have Laurie-Mae's phone number do you? I think maybe I should give her a call…you know, give her a heads up."

Patricia nods.

"My Teddy's got it for sure."

X

Jonas Montgomery's old place is a complete bust.

The elderly couple who now own it are keen to help out, and terrified by the thought that the house's previous owner may be back in town, but they haven't seen anything unusual, untoward or suspicious. No cold spots, no flickering lights, nothing moving or going missing. John excuses himself to use their bathroom and creeps around with his EMF reader, but it doesn't make a single blip.

The house has both an attic and a basement and the couple give Clay and John permission to do a thorough search of both, just in case Jonas – serial killing child molester – is hiding out in one of them….in the walls, or in some secret cubbyhole.

Clay and John conduct a painstakingly thorough search, but find nothing. Finally – after coffee and apple tea cake – they make their escape and head over to the club rooms to check how the search for Luka is going.

Piney shakes his head sadly and updates Clay on everywhere they've looked and everyone they've talked to. They talk it through and decide that Clay will join the search and John will head over to the library to help the boys with the research.

Clay takes off on his bike and John walks to the library. Entering the old building he nods to the blue suited woman behind the desk and then notices that Dean is kneeling on the floor with Jax tentatively rubbing his back.

There is no sign of Sammy and John's blood runs cold.

"Dean!" he bellows, "Report!"  
Jax has never in his life seen anyone snap to their feet as fast as Dean now does.

"Yessir!" he pauses, his face working painfully, "Sammy's missing."

John clenches his jaw. He reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket and takes out the EMF Reader. It registers slightly at the desk where Sam has been working and John frowns.

Jax and Dean follow a couple of steps behind him as John walks around the library holding the device out at arms length. When they get to the spot where the librarian indicated that she last saw Sam, the EMF reader goes nuts and Dean's face drains of all color.

John rounds on him.

"What happened to never letting him out of your sight?" he barks, "You or Jax were supposed to be eyeballing him _at all times_!"

He glares at Jax, who's slouching against a book shelf and the intensity of his gaze is such that Jax finds himself straightening up despite himself.

"It wasn't Dean's fault," Jax defends, "The Mayan's egged the Impala."

John blinks.

"And that took two of you to deal with, did it?"

"Look, John," Jax begins and suddenly John is in his face.

"You and I are not on first name terms," he hisses, "If you're gonna mess around with some Goddamn gang bangers instead of doing your job, then don't expect me to treat you like an equal. You and Dean screwed up and now Sammy is missing! So don't expect me to treat you like anything other than the kid you are!"

Jax's chin juts out defiantly and he meets John's eyes with a level stare. He doesn't even last three seconds, though, before he's lowering his gaze and staring at the floor. It's self preservation more than fear; John looks like he's about thirty seconds away from putting someone's head through a wall, and Jax would really prefer that that someone wasn't him. And besides, it's sort of possible that maybe John has a point.

"I'm sorry," he says, his voice soft but sincere, "I should've gone back inside sooner."

"This isn't Jax's fault, Dad," Dean says, "This is on me. I put the car before my brother."

"Damn straight it's on you," his father retorts, "You had _one_ job, Dean, _one_; keep your brother safe; and you screwed it up!" John Winchester pauses for breath, then demands, "Keys?"

Dean hands over the keys to the Impala wordlessly.

John strides across to the computer desk that Sam was working at and picks up all his research, along with his writing pad and pencil. He checks the PCs internet history and then turns back to the two fifteen year olds who are staring at their feet again.

"Let's go," he says and pushes them towards the door.

Jax chances a quick glance at Dean. He doesn't think he's ever seen anybody look so completely gutted in his life.

He wants to tell his new friend that his Dad is a total dick; that he's a bully and expects way too much from Dean. But he has a sneaking suspicion that he'd be wasting his breath.


	11. Chapter 11

_**Full Summary and Warnings in Chapter One…  
**_**_**

**Chapter Eleven – **_**Don't fear the reaper**_

Consciousness returns to Sam in disjointed fragments:

….the feel of cold and hard beneath his body;

_blackness_;

….pulsing pain in his head;

_blackness_;

…..a musty, dusty smell that almost clogs his nose when he breathes in;

_blackness_.

After a while there is less blackness and Sam begins to put the fragments together. He surmises that he's lying on a concrete floor, in a cold, damp place that doesn't get used much, and he winces as he remembers the malevolent form of Jonas Montgomery appearing abruptly in the library and hitting him hard on the head.

He opens his eyes. Score one for the concrete floor theory, he thinks grimly.

Sam pushes himself into a sitting position, then closes his eyes again as a wave of dizziness and nausea hits. Concussion. Brilliant. When the feeling has passed he opens his eyes again and looks around.

The space he's in is quite big. There are shelves, cupboards, sinks, hot plates and ovens at one end – sort of like the kitchen in a diner; and at the other end there are rows and rows of tables and chairs – again, sort of like a diner. The only things missing are checked table clothes, menus and a hovering waitress with a never-ending pot of coffee.

The only light in the room comes from several oil lamps and there are no windows. Sam looks up at the ceiling and sighs.

"Sometimes I really wish I wasn't so smart," he mutters; because his brother always comes up with some smart-ass quip when he's terrified, and Sam's barely holding it together right now.

The room has two doorways and one solid steel door. Sam takes a deep, steadying breath and gets carefully to his feet. He battles through another round of nausea and dizziness, and then goes and tries the solid steel door.

It's locked; _big surprise there_, he deadpans, in a pretty fair imitation of his big brother. He looks around cautiously, conscious that Jonas could appear at any minute, then heads over to the doorway on the left. It leads to a store room so huge, it makes his jaw drop. The room is piled floor to ceiling with so much stuff that Sam thinks he could spend a month here and not be able to catalogue all the supplies.

There are a lot of pallets of canned food, as well as toilet paper, medical supplies, cleaning fluids, more canned food, 20L drums of cooking oil, 20L drums of water, even more canned food, and, Sam grins, an entire section filled with 20kg bags of salt.

"No pie, though, I bet," he mutters, because it's helping a little, trying to channel his brother.

If Sam had had any doubts before about where he was, the supply store room would've dispelled them, and he wishes, really badly, that he'd shared his theory with Dean when they were talking earlier.

_Dean_ . Sam is suddenly all too aware of his brother's absence. He clenches his jaw and struggles to maintain his composure, as a feeling of intense vulnerability threatens to overwhelm him. He has never been as exposed and alone as he is now. Before, his big brother was always there to stand in between him and danger. Dean, with his back straight, a dangerous glint in his eye and a truck load of attitude, always willing and able to face down any monster to keep his little brother safe; even when he was Sam's age; even when he was younger. Sam is suddenly very much in awe of how easy his brother makes bravery look.

_Dean_. Sam grimaces. Right about now, Dean will be completely frantic. He'll be tearing things apart, scaring the hell out of Miss Blue Suit and generally going out of his mind. Not to mention Dad's reaction. That's not going to be pretty. Dad'll be on the warpath, in flat out protect-the-young mode, and woe betide anyone or anything that gets in his way.

The worst thing though, is that he's going to blame Dean for this.

Sam's stomach flutters with anxiety. He needs to get himself out of here quickly before his family tears itself apart worrying about him.

First thing's first though. Sam pastes on his game face and strides across to the salt bags. He drags one across to the middle of the floor, tears it open and upends it. Holding the bottom of the bag he walks around in a very large loop, until he has a decent sized salt circle laid out. There's still plenty of salt left in the bag so he dumps the bag inside the circle, then wipes his hands on his jeans. Okay. He's got somewhere safe to run to if he needs to. Now to check out the rest of his prison. He fills his pockets with salt, turns back towards the doorway and nearly has heart failure on the spot.

"_Shit_!"

There's a kid about his age standing in the door way. He has dark, almost black, curly hair; huge, scared brown eyes; and he's wrapped in a thin, grey blanket.

Sam recovers himself quickly.

"Are you Luka?" he asks softly.

The kid nods.

"Hi Luka. I'm Sam. Everyone's been looking for you."

"They have?" Luka's voice is barely audible and has a shaky, trying-not-to-cry quality to it that Sam recognizes all too well.

He nods.

"Yeah. Me, my brother Dean, and Jax Teller were looking for you in the library when the bad man got me."

Luka, who had relaxed a little at the mention of Jax, pales when Sam mentions the bad man. Sam watches as he struggles to get himself under control.

"He's…he's gonna kill us," Luka finally stutters.

"No he's not," Sam says firmly, "Come over here, I've got something to show you."

Luka ventures forwards tentatively.

"Why are you standing in that salt?" he asks.

Sam looks searchingly at Luka and wonders how to explain what's going on without sounding like a stupid little kid lost in fantasy land.

"Um, did you notice anything, uh, weird about the bad man?" he asks.

Luka stares at him.

"Weird how? Like he flickers in and out and can walk through walls? That kind of weird?"

Sam nods.

"Yeah. That kind of weird," he replies, his eyes serious.

Luka looks relieved.

"So I'm not going crazy?"

Sam shakes his head.

"Jonas….that's his name….he's a ghost. Salt repels ghosts. If you stand inside this salt circle with me, he won't be able to touch us."

Sam has never seen anybody move so fast in his life.

X

The front door of Gemma and Clay's place is unlocked which doesn't surprise John in the slightest because, really, who'd be stupid enough to rob the president of the town's outlaw bikers' club? John pushes the door open then glowers at Dean and Jax until they slink past him and into the house. He shuts the door with a bang, strides across to the dining table and dumps all Sammy's research, before sitting down and putting his head in his hands.

Jax stands next to Dean in the large dining-come-family area of his home and shuffles uncomfortably. John looks wrecked but the waves of anger radiating from him are enough to keep Jax wary.

John suddenly straightens up in his chair. His back still to them, he sticks out an arm, points to the ground and makes a gesture that Jax doesn't understand. Dean clearly does though because he immediately drops to the floor and starts doing push ups.

"You too, Jax," John says after a moment.

Jax frowns. What? No way he's doing push ups. Screw that.

"Now, Jax!"

The words whip out in what Jax imagines is John's best drill sergeant voice. It's the same voice that Clay uses – and that his own father used to use – when instant on-pain-of-an-ass-kicking obedience is expected, and part of Jax is responding to that. He barely manages to stop himself complying, but he does, because, _fuck_ John Winchester. Jax doesn't owe him _any_ allegiance, the man is _nothing_ to him, and he sure as shit isn't going to salute smartly, drop and give him fifty. Or whatever.

"Fuck you," Jax snarls, and stalks towards his bedroom.

He doesn't even hear John Winchester move, so it's a complete surprise when a hand suddenly grabs his wrist, flings him almost full circle and hurls him against the dining room wall. Abruptly, John has his left hand leaning against the wall and his right forearm against Jax's throat. John's full weight is crushed against him, holding him immobile, and his face is just inches away from Jax's. Jax is trembling and trying hard to convince himself it's because he's angry and not because he's scared shitless right now; because he isn't. Scared. Nope. Not at all.

"This is not some pissy little gang fight," John hisses at him, "this is a war; humanity against the forces of evil, and, boy, you have _no idea_, the evil that's out there. Death is actually one of the better options in this war," he pauses to let that sink in, then says, "When _I'm_ talking _Demons_ and _Hell_, I'm talking _literally_ and you'd better remember that, son," he pauses again, his eyes boring into Jax's, "You heard Clay last night," he continues after a moment, "heard him say we'd do this my way. Well, _this_ is _my_ way. You join my army, you play by my rules. And I do not tolerate subordinates disobeying a direct order. You screwed up, Jax, and now you pay for that. I want you on the floor, doing push ups the minute I let you go. And if that's too hard for you to understand, then maybe I'll have your step daddy explain it to you with his belt," he pauses again, then says, "Floor; push ups; now! Do you understand?"

Jax nods and John raises an eyebrow.

"Yeah," Jax says, and John's eyebrows disappear into his hair line.

Jax grits his teeth. Fuck. The goddamn control freak is going to make him say it.

"Yes, sir," he says flatly.

John grunts.

"You watch your tone with me, boy."

He lets go of Jax and moves aside. Jax takes a shaky breath and walks slowly towards where Dean is still doing push ups on the floor.

"Jax can't do push ups, Dad," Dean says breathlessly.

"The hell I can't!" Jax retorts indignantly, and then wonders what's wrong with him. It's not like he _wants_ to do push ups.

"Why not?" John asks his son.

"Bullet wound. Upper left arm. I stitched it up yesterday."

John looks at Jax incredulously. The kid looks pissed, guilty, scared, and he's looking at Dean like he's been betrayed.

"Clay got reports of shots fired yesterday," John muses, "something to do with your gang rivals. But he didn't suspect your involvement; mostly because he thought you were in school," he pauses, noting the way Jax maintains eye contact, still scared, but ready to deal with this issue head on if he has to. John sighs. Jax is a good kid, but he's too undisciplined to make a good soldier, "What happened?"

Jax tells him; the bare facts without any embellishment, then asks, tentatively, "Are you gonna tell Clay?"

John thinks about it for a moment and then shakes his head.

"Not unless you give me reason to bring it up. Here, let me look at the wound."

Jax shucks off his shirt and rolls up the sleeve of his tee-shirt so that John can get at the bandage. He stands still while John unfurls it and praises Dean's stitching.

"You can do sit ups instead," John says when Jax is dressed again.

Jax lowers himself to the floor next to Dean and sighs. Dean looks like he could do push ups forever; Jax doubts he'll even make it to fifty sit ups before he collapses, then hurls. Maybe taking up smoking at eleven wasn't such a smart idea after all.

X

Sam can't think of anything to say. He just asked Luka if the bad man hurt him and Luka shook his head, even though he flushed bright red at the question.

Sam thinks he can understand why. He still remembers Dean telling him about child molesters as clearly as if it was yesterday. He'd been six years old, which would've made Dean the same age that Sam is now; funny how he'd seemed so much older at the time. They'd been in the playground of the trailer park where they were living, just the two of them, when a man had called Sam over with promises of a Hershey Bar. Dean had been on the swings, impressing Sam by propelling himself so high that he was nearly flipping the swing over, and when Sam had headed towards the man promising chocolate, he'd leapt from the swing like a stunt man and grabbed his brother firmly by the arm, hauling him back and placing himself in between Sam and the man.

"We don't want anything from you," Dean had told the man coldly, his eyes hard, knowing and unfriendly, and the man had shrugged and wandered off.

"He only wanted to give me a Hershey Bar," Sam had pouted.

Dean had sighed.

"Don't you know anything? You never take candy from strangers, Sam, coz there's bad men out there who like to do bad stuff to little kids. And they use candy like bait."

Sam's eyes had widened.

"What do they do? Do they kill them?"

"Sometimes. Sometimes they molest them."

"What does that mean?"

Dean had looked uncomfortable.

"It means they touch their private parts and stuff."

"Ew!"

"Yeah. They're sick. So never take candy from strangers, okay?"

Sam sighs. Yeah, he can understand Luka's embarrassment alright. If he'd been groped by a ghost, he'd be embarrassed about it too.

"So, uh, did you get a chance to look around down here?"

Luka shakes his head.

"The man left me in the other room, the one with all the beds in it, and...and…..and…..then he told me not to move, that he'd be back. And then I fell asleep. And then I woke up and he wasn't back, but I was too scared to move. And then I heard you."

Sam nods, notes the fact that there's another room with beds in it, "So you're probably hungry?"

"Yeah. How long have I been here?"

"About a day, I think. Wait in the circle, I think I saw some canned fruit before."

Sam takes a surreptitious deep breath, then heads out of the circle.

"Aren't you scared?" Luka says softly, and Sam grins.

"Takes more than some little ghost to scare me!" he blusters. And he really hopes Luka can't see the way he's shaking.

X

"Dean?"

"Yessir?"

"When I checked the web history on the library's computer, the last three webpages your brother looked at were The Charming City Council's webpage, the Charming Historical Society's webpage and something called The Civil Defense Survival Database. Any idea what he might've been looking for?"

"No, sir," Dean gasps, "I know….he had…. some…. theory ….about ….where ….Jonas ….was….stashing….his vics….that's all…"

"How many push ups have you done?"

"186, 187, 188-"

"Stop at two hundred."

"Yessir."

Jax groans. He's barely done eighty sit ups. No way he can do two hundred.

Up, down, up down, and his stomach is straining and trembling, and he wishes he was as fit as Dean. He makes himself keep going, impossible though it seems, and something starts to stir in the back of his mind; a memory he can barely recall. Civil Defense…..Survival….and suddenly it clicks.

He remembers AJ Weston bragging in the playground, back when they were in middle school, saying that there was a big underground shelter beneath Charming, part of the government's Civil Defense Program, he'd said proudly, like it was a phrase he'd learnt from rote. When the Russians bombed them, he'd informed his wide eyed audience, the government would let everyone from good stock hide in the shelter. Every loyal patriot who knew how to carry a gun and survive off the land, and who wasn't a race traitor, would be selected to carry on the human race. Bikers and niggers, he'd said, wouldn't be allowed, so Jax had decked him and landed himself in detention.

"Civil Defense Program," Jax huffs, "Fallout shelter. Under the town. Dunno where exactly."

A smile ghosts across John's face.

"God, Sam's a smart kid," he mutters proudly.

Dean collapses onto the floor, rests for a minute then jumps to his feet.

"You think Jonas' is hiding the kids in some underground fallout bunker that everyone's forgotten about?"

John nods.

"Now that we know what we're looking for," he says, "I should go back to the library; do some more research."

A rustle of shopping bags announces the return of Gemma.

"John? Jax?" she calls out as she makes her way down the hall, "I've got some good news!"

She pauses just inside the dining/family area and takes in the sight before her.

Her son is on the floor doing sit ups. John is sitting at the dining table, papers spread out before him, and Dean is standing over his shoulder. The anguish in their eyes makes her stomach flip.

"Where's Sam?" she asks, every fiber of her body tingling with alarm.

"Taken," John says, the word weighed down with grief, and Gemma knows that she has to be strong for him. She doesn't need to ask who has taken Sam; in the circumstances, it can only have been one person….or…ghost.

The thought of that sweet little boy in the hands of someone like Jonas is nearly too much and Gemma wants to break down; to shout out her denial, to cry, to rail against the unfairness of it all, but she won't because the boys need her support.

She walks to the bench and puts down all her bags, pauses with her back to the boys so that she can collect herself, then heads purposefully over to the Winchesters. She puts a hand on John's shoulder, squeezes it slightly and says firmly, "You'll get him back."

She turns to Dean, looks searchingly into devastated hazel eyes and abruptly pulls the boy into a hug. He resists at first, standing stiffly against her with his arms by his sides, while she murmurs meaningless platitudes in his ear. He relaxes suddenly, puts his arms around her and holds on like she's a life preserver. He starts to tremble and Gemma isn't sure whether he's crying or trembling from the effort of not crying.

"It's my fault he's gone," he whispers, breath hitching, "all my fault."

Gemma pulls out of the hug and holds the boy at arms length, staring intently into eyes bright with unshed tears.

"Who told you that nonsense?" she demands, and she doesn't miss the fact that his eyes slide quickly towards his father.

"I was supposed to be watching him," Dean says, "This wouldn't have happened if I'd been doing my job."

"The…Mayans….egged…..the Impala," Jax says breathlessly from the floor, "We got …distracted, for like…..seven or eight…..minutes, cleaning…..the mess…..up. I'm…..as much…to blame…..as Dean."

Gemma suppresses a sigh.

"How many of them do you have to do?" she asks.

Jax looks at John.

"Until…he says….to stop. This is….129. Dean….did…200…push ups."

"You can stop at one fifty," John says, eyes flicking to Gemma's. He's not seeking her approval, merely gauging her reaction.

A look of immense gratitude and relief flits across Jax's face.

"Yessir," he says, and Gemma can't detect any sarcasm in his tone.

Interesting. Gemma decides she prefers John's discipline methods to Clay's, although she suspects that John is not above pulling out his belt on occasion.

She gives him a nod of approval and turns away from Jax.

"Well I got the name and phone number of Jonas' Aunt; the one who sold his house and took care of all his personal possessions."

"Laurie-Mae Miller," says John, "Lives over in Lodi. Sam," his voice stumbles a little on his son's name, "got her details off the internet."

"Oh," Gemma says, "Well…I've got her phone number. Thought I'd give her a call, see if we can go down and see her this afternoon."

John nods.

"And we think we've figured out where Jonas is stashing the kids. Do you know anything about a nuclear fallout shelter under the town?"

Gemma's eyes widen and she nods.

"Holy shit. Yeah. But they closed that in '84; locked it up tighter than a nun's pussy."

Dean sniggers.

"Whereabouts is it?" John presses, "where's the entrance?"

Gemma's brows furrow briefly.

"There were two entrances. One in the grounds of Our Lady of the Sacred Heart Church and one in City Hall."

Dean snorts.

"Figures that the politicians would give themselves easy access."

"We'll scope out the Church entrance first," John declares, rising from his chair, "I doubt Jonas had access to the entrance in City Hall."

Gemma's eyes widen again and she suddenly clutches at John's arm.

"The current City Hall building, it's new," she says urgently, "When they moved into the new building," her eyes meet John's, "they turned the old City Hall building into a library."

"Dad! Jonas worked at the library! And that's where Sam disappeared from!"

"And Luka disappeared from the After school care program!" Gemma adds, "That's run out of the Church hall!"

"Sonovabitch," says John, "Jonas volunteered for that program! He had access to both entrances!"

"One fifty," says Jax and collapses on his back on the floor.


	12. Chapter 12

_**Full Summary and Warnings in Chapter One…  
**_**_**

**Chapter Twelve – **_**You better have soul…**_

One important thing that Sam learns about cavernous bunkers located deep underground is that they are cold.

Luka has finished three cans of tinned peaches, scooping the orangey flesh out of the tin ravenously with his fingers and then drinking the syrup, like the tin is a cup, and is now sitting shivering next to Sam. Sam is shivering worse than Luka; he doesn't have a blanket. He gets to his feet with a sigh.

"Where are you going?" Luka's voice is edged with panic.

"Going to get some more blankets."

"What about the man?"

"You'll be safe enough in the circle."

Luka nods, "But what about you?"

Sam channels Dean again, "I'll be fine. You just stay here and don't leave the circle, no matter what."

Luka swallows hard then nods.

Sam grips the salt in his pocket tightly then moves cautiously out of the store room, through the kitchen/dining area and into the sleeping quarters. Row after row of grey-blanketed bunk beds fill the area, but Sam doesn't stop to explore, just grabs two blankets from the nearest beds and hauls ass back out towards the store room.

He's half way across the kitchen/dining area when the air around him drops several degrees, a faint breeze kicks up in the entirely air locked bunker, and the hairs on the back of Sam's neck start to bristle.

He whirls quickly to find Jonas standing behind him, a lecherous grin on his face. Sam soon wipes that off, whipping his hand out of his pocket and hurling a fistful of salt straight at Jonas' mouth.

Jonas howls with inhuman fury and vanishes.

Sam struggles to control his shaking as he hurries towards the store room. He can hear Luka calling for him, the terror obvious in his voice.

"It's okay, Luka," he calls out, "I'm coming."

And then the temperature drops again and Sam whirls to confront the ghost, his heart almost pounding out of his chest.

Jonas has stopped some way away from him, out of salt-throwing range, and is grinning with sick, sadistic pleasure. Sam watches in abject horror as the ghost slowly waves open a kitchen drawer and levitates several large knives out of it.

Sam drapes the blankets around his neck to free up his hands, casts about desperately and then lunges for the large, plastic trash cans he spots up against the far wall. He grabs the lid from one of them and whirls, using it like a shield to bat away the hurtling knives.

Jonas howls with rage as the flung knives are swatted uselessly to the floor and he starts hurling everything in sight at Sam. Sam grabs another trash can lid and begins to inch his way slowly across the floor to the store room, batting away hurtling projectiles as he goes.

His heart is racing, his stomach is somersaulting and his blood is roaring and pumping in his ears so loudly that he can barely make out the sound of Luka's terrified sobbing. Sam is every bit as scared as Luka but he knows that he has to be the strong one here. He's the one who knows how to fight the supernatural, who understands what's going on. Luka is a civilian and it's Sam's job to protect him.

"You're mine, boy!" Jonas rasps, "I'm gonna split you in two; when I'm through with you, you're gonna wish you were dead!"

"Is this the part where you tell me your entire evil plan?" Dean's attitude pours unbidden from Sam's mouth, "Coz I've gotta tell you, Jonas, that never ends well for the bad guys."

Half a dozen knives and several large spoons slam uselessly into Sam's shield.

"You'll pay for this boy!" Jonas growls.

"Yeah, yeah," Sam snarks, "me and my little dog too, right?"

He takes a final step backwards into the salt circle and hands one of the trash can lids to Luka.

"Will the circle stop the knives?" Luka asks hopefully.

Sam shakes his head.

Jonas moves silently into the storeroom's doorway, an array of cutlery floating ominously before him.

"Batter up," Sam quips, as he raises his shield.

X

Jax leans back in his seat, stretches his legs out in front of him and sighs contentedly. Riding shotgun in the Impala is every bit as sweet as he thought it would be; he's on a mission to kick some ghostly butt and rescue a couple of kids; and he can't pretend he's not as excited as all fuck to be in on the action.

The only downer is John Winchester who's sitting in the driver's seat looking gruff and pissed and yet scarily focused at the same time.

"Sweet ride," Jax ventures.

John grunts.

Jax tries again.

"So we're gonna break into the bunker through the church entrance, rescue Sam and Luka and keep Jonas distracted while Clay, my Mom and Dean find and destroy whatever remains are holding him here?"

John's eyes slide across to him.

"We've already been over this," he grouches, "You having second thoughts?"

"Hell no. Just, you know, don't want anything to go wrong."

John grunts again.

"You're babbling coz you're scared. Right."

Jax huffs.

"I'm _psyched_, not _scared_. I just…." he pauses, "I just wanna make sure….I don't want to screw up again.

John meets the boy's eyes and sees the burning determination and fierce commitment in them. He nods approvingly.

"You'll be fine," he says, "just make sure you follow my orders. If you've got questions, ask them now. A battle field is not the place for second guessing your commanding officer. When we're out there, you do _what_ you're told, _when_ you're told. If I say 'drop' you hit the ground immediately. You obey me without question or hesitation because if you don't, you could die. Do you understand?"

Jax nods. "Yeah," he says, "I get it."

He waits a beat then asks,

"Why does salt hurt ghosts?"

"It's a substance of purity."

"Yeah," Jax nods, "Dean told me that. But why does it hurt them?"

John shrugs, "No idea."

"What about the iron? Why does that hurt them?"

John shrugs again, "The lore says it does, and it does. What does it matter why?"

Jax doesn't want John to think he's being disrespectful so he chooses his words carefully, "It doesn't matter, I guess. It's just….if we don't know _why_ it works, how can we be confident that it always _will_ work? I guess….I guess I just like to know a little more about my tools, that's all."

Jax braces himself, figures John won't appreciate the implied criticism, and what with the whole militaristic alpha male thing the man's got going on it wouldn't surprise Jax at all if John smacked him upside the head for that comment.

It _does_ surprise him when John grins at him and says, "You know, you remind me a lot of Sammy. His brain's always working overtime, always wanting to know why. Trust me when I say that both salt and iron will work on Jonas. If you want to know more about _why_, research it in your own time."

Jax grimaces.

"Supernatural homework? No thanks. I'd rather shoot at things than sit in a library."

John grins again.

"And now you remind me of Dean!"

They turn into the drive way of the church and then pull around to the back and drive right up to the hurricane-shelter style bunker entrance.

When John opens the Impala's trunk, Jax lets out a low whistle.

"Fuckin' A!" he exclaims, impressed as all hell with the massive assortment of weapons.

And then he winces because now John _does_ smack the back of his head.

"Watch the language," John growls.

Jax scowls because he's a biker, not a fucking boy scout for Christ's sake!

"And lose the attitude," John adds.

_Fuck_! How the hell do Dean and Sam put up with this guy riding them so hard all the time? No wonder Dean's all yessir, nosir with this guy on his ass all the time!

Jax manages to smooth his face into a mask of calm, quiet determination and John looks satisfied. He hands him a pump action shot gun and Jax's mood lifts immediately. The gun has a strap so Jax slings it over his shoulder then takes the box of ammo John hands him and puts it in the pocket of his hoodie, before taking the two iron rods that John is holding out to him and grasping them firmly in his left hand.

John straps on his own shot gun before hauling a serious looking set of bolt cutters out of the trunk.

John makes short work of the heavy chains locking down the trap door to the bunker and they're inside a dusty corridor within minutes. They creep forwards, silent and watchful, until they come to a huge metal door which, unsurprisingly, is locked.

John withdraws a lock pick from his pocket and has them through the door in a few short minutes. They're now faced with another enormous metal door, this one without any obvious handle and John sighs.

There's an electronic panel to the left of the door, sort of like the pad of an alarm system which, Jax realizes grimly, is exactly what it is.

John stares at the pad for a moment and then keys in "911" enter.

The words_ System Disarmed_, flash on the pad's small screen and Jax laughs triumphantly.

"How the fu…hell did you know that?"

John shrugs.

"Just a hunch. Figured it was worth trying."

"Why isn't the door opening?"

"I don't know. Hand me one of those rods."

Jax watches silently as John tries to pry the door open, muscles straining and sweat beading on his forehead. He gives up eventually and slumps against the steadfastly closed door.

"It's no good, Jax," he puffs, "I don't think it's a problem with the door; I think it's a supernatural lock down."

Jax frowns. "A what?"

"You know in ghost stories, how at the stroke of midnight nobody can get out of the haunted house?"

Jax nods.

"Like that," John says, "only nobody can get out or _in_."

Jax frowns again.

"Jonas can," he says, "he brought Luka in, then he brought Sam in, and he's supposed to bring in at least one other kid, right?"

"That's not helpful Jax. _We_ need to get in there. The last thing we want is Jonas bringing in another ten year old kid."

Jax worries his bottom lip for a moment and then says tentatively, "Okay…but…we could probably, uh, persuade him to take _me_ in there."

"_Excuse_ me?" John's tone is low and dangerous.

"Just hear me out before you start whacking me again, okay!" Jax says urgently and John narrows his eyes, then nods.

"We need to get in there, right? And the only way in there at the moment is if Jonas takes you in there, right?" Jax's grey eyes bore into John's. John nods reluctantly.

"Jonas is sure as shit not gonna take you in there, yeah? But _me_, on the other hand…..no wait," Jax holds a hand up imploringly when John opens his mouth to speak. John snaps his jaw shut with a sigh and nods at Jax to continue.

"I know I'm too old for the sick fuck-" Jax's eyes widen slightly when he realizes what he just said, and he mumbles a quick apology before continuing, "Well anyway, you said the other day, when me and Dean wanted to come to the graveyard with you, that if Jonas is pissed enough he might just grab one of us and make do. So….that's the plan. Piss him off, enough to push him into snatching me, then at least one of us can be in there protecting the kids."

"Are you finished?" John says flatly.

Jax shrugs.

"Dunno. You willing to give my plan a shot or should I keep talking?"

"Your plan. Right. Let me go over that. I stand idly by while a fifteen year old kid let's a serial killing pedophile snatch him. Did I miss anything important? Like the part where you explain how this isn't a suicide mission and why I shouldn't kick your ass for even suggesting it?"

Jax's eyes blaze. "I can look after myself," he asserts. He waves the gun and the iron rod, "and it's not like I'm going in there empty handed. All I've gotta do is hold Jonas off, either until the others salt and burn the rest of the remains or until the cycle finishes, whichever happens first."

John grinds his teeth, his hands tightening into fists.

"And if you get killed? What do I tell Clay and your Mom then? That I just stood back and let you walk in there?"

Jax worries at his bottom lip.

"Tell them I disobeyed you," he says with a shrug, and this time John's hand does come up and whack the back of his head.

"You want me to get you killed and then _lie_ about it?"

"No! I just don't want Clay to blame you if something goes wrong! So if you say I disobeyed…."

John regards Jax appraisingly.

"Will it come to that?" he asks, "If I order you to abandon your crazy-ass plan, will you go ahead anyway?"

Jax takes a deep breath and glances up at the ceiling. He's really upset that John doesn't trust him to do this, but then he can't really blame the man. He already fucked up once, getting distracted by the Mayans and letting Sam get snatched. Why should John trust him to do something as important as this? What has he done to earn the man's trust? What has he shown him except for a moody, foul-mouthed, undisciplined teenager all too happy to tell him to fuck off?

He chews on his bottom lip again and then meets John's eyes.

"I can do this, sir," he says, doing his best to be the model of a perfect soldier, "but you're in charge. If you say no, then it's no."

John's guts twist and clench.

"Jax," he says painfully, "this is too big a risk; too much to ask of you. You could get killed. You could get…..," John takes his own deep breath, "you could get raped."

Jax laughs humorlessly, "Not gonna happen," he says, "not with me all tooled up for fighting ghosts. But…..if…." he pushes back his hair and his breathing stutters, "well, better me than Sam or Luka. At least I've been around the block a coupla times. Something like that….it would wreck those kids for life."

John's eyes fill with torment, but he doesn't say a word.

"It's a shitty plan, sir, I know it is," Jax continues, encouraged by John's silence, "but it's the best one we've got. And I can't just stand here knowing what those kids are facing and do nothing," the anguish in his expression is very real as he begs, "Please don't make me do that. Let me do this."

There's a long moment of silence while John and Jax hold each other's eyes and steel themselves for the decision.

"Alright," John says finally, "God have mercy on my soul, but alright."

Jax draws in a deep, shaky breath.

"Okay. Can I have your weapons too, sir?"

John hands them over. "I'll wait in the outer corridor," he says, "Jonas is more likely to come after you if you're alone."

Jax nods. "And you better block your ears. I'm gonna be trying to make him angry so I'm gonna say some shit."

John huffs, "I'll live. You take care of yourself. Don't take any unnecessary risks, you hear me?"

He heads back into the outer corridor, pulling the door softly closed behind him and suddenly Jax is alone.

He's scared as hell and his blood is buzzing with adrenalin but he wants to do this; wants to protect Sam and Luka and blast Jonas full of rock salt for what he's already done to the kids in this town.

"Jonas Montgomery!" he yells out, "You sad, pathetic loser! I know you're in there! This is Jax Teller, Jonas. Do you remember me? Blonde hair, grey eyes? You used to hang around The Taste of Charming festivals ogling my ass; even tried to cop a feel once. You remember that, you sick fuck? I was ten years old and just your type and I reckon you wanted me bad. But then my Dad found out your secret and had your throat slit. _Your_ Daddy might've fucked you Jonas, but _my_ Daddy fucked you up and I bet you'd love to make me pay for that, wouldn't you Jonas? You sick, miserable-"

But Jax doesn't get to finish the sentence because the air around him suddenly goes cold, a pair of arms wrap around his middle and the world goes dark.

X

Dean watches the Impala pull out of the driveway and a feeling of grief and loss settles in the pit of his stomach. It should be him going with his Dad to rescue Sam. Sam is _his_ responsibility; he's the one who stuffed up and let him get snatched and the fact that he's not going to be the one putting himself in between Sam and danger is making him nervous. If only-

"C'mon, sweetheart," Tig says impatiently from the back of his bike, "Stop pining after Jax and put this on," he waves a motor cycle helmet at Dean and Dean grimaces.

He'd expected that he, Clay and Gemma would go to Lodi in Gemma's car but apparently all official club business must be travelled to by motor cycle, and the possibility of a hostile presence (albeit a ghostly one) means that Clay's decided to bring his sergeant-at-arms along for the ride too.

As sergeant-at-arms it's Tig's job to protect his president, and besides, he's the only one of Clay's men crazy enough to buy into the whole 'monsters are real' scenario without proof or question.

Dean puts Tig's proffered helmet on reluctantly and then looks at Gemma. She's sitting on the back of Clay's bike, flush up against his back with her thighs squeezed against his and her arms wrapped around his waist.

Riding tandem seems to require you to get up close and personal; it's a very intimate activity and Dean can well believe Jax's claim that taking a girl out on the back of his bike has never failed to get him laid. He glances at Tig and shudders.

Tig smirks. "Whatsamatta sweet cheeks?" he sticks a hand out and squeezes Dean's ass, "Scared you're gonna get a hard on?"

Dean treats Tig to his best death stare.

"How hard is it to ride with a broken hand?" he asks, and Tig pulls his arm back without comment.

Dean slings a leg over the bike and sits as far away from Tig as he possibly can.

He very nearly goes for the man's throat when Tig reaches back and pulls him further forward, plastering Dean up against his back.

"If I put my bike down because you fuck up my center of gravity," Tig growls, "I'll fuck _you_ up; we clear?"

Dean nods, his body tense.

"Hold on to me," Tig says, and Dean complies, putting his hands on Tig's shoulders and clutching onto his jacket, "Lean when I do," Tig instructs, "And relax for fuck's sake!"

Dean nods again, then swallows. The engine roars to life and the vibrations go straight to Dean's crotch. He sighs and resigns himself to an uncomfortable and possibly embarrassing ride, but in the end it's not too bad and the half hour ride is over almost too quickly.

Not that Dean will ever admit it to Jax, but he's quietly ready to concede that riding a bike is kind of a turn on, and riding tandem with someone you were attracted to, yeah, he can see how that'd be awesome. He's also ready to concede that he enjoys the exhilaration of riding a Harley, loves the feel of the wind in his hair and the way the bike tilts around the corners, barely skimming the road.

Still, the machine itself is not a patch on his baby. The Harley can't compete with the Impala's sleek, gleaming curves, and besides, there's just not enough trunk space on a bike for the Winchester arsenal.

One thing the Impala and the Harley have in common is that neither of them can sneak up on anyone and Jonas's aunt, Miss Laurie-Mae Miller, is waiting for them on her front porch, hands on hips and lips pursed in a combination of fear and annoyance.

Gemma takes charge, hugging the woman tightly as she introduces herself and reminds Laurie-Mae that they spoke on the phone earlier.

Gemma doesn't bother to introduce Clay or Tig; their cuts and patches say all Laurie-Mae needs to know about who they are, and Dean's just a kid.

Gemma guides Laurie-Mae into the house with an arm around her shoulders and the women and Clay settle into the lounge room. Tig stands guard by the door and no-one gives Dean any instructions so he decides to just stick by Tig.

Laurie-Mae bustles around getting drinks for Gemma, Clay and herself and ignores Tig and Dean, which suits Dean just fine. He sneaks the EMF reader out of his jacket and switches it on, but he doesn't get any readings. He'll sweep the house later if he has to but now he figures it's best just to listen as Gemma and Clay pump Laurie-Mae for information.

She's horrified, of course, to hear that Jonas might be back, but skeptical too.

"I saw him with my own eyes," Clay rumbles, "He's back. So you're saying he hasn't contacted you yet?"

Laurie-Mae's face drains of color and she shakes her head.

"We think he's looking for something," Gemma improvises, "You're the one who got all his stuff when he was declared dead. What do you think he's looking for?"

"I have no idea!" Laurie-Mae exclaims emphatically, "I threw out a lot of his stuff, or gave it to the Goodwill. I only kept the real personal stuff, like his books and his medals and so on. Sentimental, I know, but he wasn't always a bad person. Once upon a time he was just a sad, abused little boy."

Dean harrumphs and the adults all turn and look at him.

"Should've known better then, shouldn't he?" he says defensively, "Should've known how bad that shit was and shouldn't've put a bunch of other kids through it too."

Laurie-Mae's eyes fill with tears. "You're right," she says softly, "but I think by the time he started….well….I think he was just too damaged to know any better. And I hold myself responsible for that," she turns her watery eyes to Gemma, "I helped his Daddy to look after him when he was a baby," she says, "helped out right up until Jonas Junior started school, but after that his daddy pushed me out of their life," her tears finally spill, "I should've known," her voice quavers painfully, "I think I did know, but I washed my hands of the situation; turned a blind eye."

Gemma puts a hand to her arm.

"I'm sure you did the best you could," she says, but Dean can see that she doesn't really mean it, "Maybe you could show us the stuff of his that you kept? Maybe it'll help us sort this mess out."

"Sure," Laurie-Mae pulls herself together and stands up, "It's up in the attic."

X

Jax groans…..and then stills abruptly because…._fuck_!

He's face down on a cold concrete floor, his pants are down, there's a heavy weight on his legs and a cold hand on his ass.

"You're mine, boy!" he hears a rough voice say, "I'm gonna split you in two; when I'm through with you, you're gonna wish you were dead!"

Yeah. Okay. _That_ is so not happening!

Either Jonas was so eager to get on with the show that he didn't bother to notice that Jax is armed to the teeth, or else being dead kills off a lot of your brain cells. Jax doesn't really care either way, all that matters to him is that when Jonas shifts his weight a little, presumably so that he can make good on his threat to, uh, yeah, Jax is able to twist around and bring up the shot gun.

"Fuck you, asshole!" he yells as he pumps Jonas full of salt, causing him to vanish.

"Jax? Is that you?"

It's Sam and Jax's relief is a living, breathing thing.

"Yeah!" he calls back, "Hang on, I'm coming."

He scrambles to his feet quickly and yanks up his pants. He runs a shaky hand across his mouth and, yeah, it's gonna take quite a few shots of Jack to forget that sonovabitch's hands on his ass.

"Guess it's true what they say about me," Jax mutters to himself, "too fuckin' easy to get into my pants. Next time I do this, gonna wear _tight_ jeans."

"We're in the store room," Sam shouts, "Is Dean or my Dad with you?"

Jonas reappears with a howl and Jax pumps the shotgun and blasts him into oblivion again.

"Uh, no. There's a supernatural lock down, your Dad couldn't get in," Jax hurries towards the sound of Sam's voice, stopping and whirling around when he feels a cold wind behind him and the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

"Fuck!" Jax barely manages to leap aside as a knife is hurled at him. He shoots Jonas again and then calls out for Sam, "I'm in, like, an army barracks dorm or something. How do I get to you?"

"Straight through the doorway, across the kitchen and through the doorway on the right hand side."

"Okay, I'm coming."

Jax sprints and he sags with relief when he spies Sam and Luka standing in a circle of salt.

Sam's eyes suddenly widen.

"Drop!" he commands, and Jax throws himself to the ground without hesitation, spinning and firing as he does. Jonas disappears, but the knives he's hurled keep going. Jax twists his head towards the kids in panic only to see Sam swat the hurtling objects away with the lid of a trash can.

"You kids okay?" Jax asks.

Sam nods.

"You?"

"Yeah," Jax gets to his feet quickly and joins the boys in the circle.

Sam says, "Whatever you did to get in here, it was good timing," he nods towards Luka and Jax sees that the kid's thigh is tightly bandaged with what looks to be a torn off section of Sam's tee-shirt. He glances back at Sam. Yep. His tee-shirt now ends just below his belly button.

"Shit. You doin' okay, Luka?"

Luka nods, but his eyes are glassy with shock.

"It's not too bad," Sam says, "Won't need stitches. And you distracting Jonas when you did…..I got it bandaged pretty quick, so he hasn't lost much blood."

Sam is so calm and matter-of-fact that Jax can't help shaking his head. Seems like Sam has everything under control here; setting up a salt circle, batting away knives with his trash can lids, patching up Luka. Yeah, not like the kid really needs Jax for protection when he's so well-trained and capable himself. Still at least Jax provided a _distraction_ for him.

"Give me one of them," Sam has dropped his shield and is tugging on one of the shotguns.

Jax hands it over without comment. He watches Sam check the magazine then sling the gun over his head and across his chest like an old pro and it suddenly strikes him as funny – sacrilegious almost – that the _Winchester_ shotgun of choice is a _Remington_.

"What?" Sam asks.

Jax shakes his head.

"You win," he says, "The Guy with the Most Crazy-ass family Award. You win hands down."

Sam grins but the smile doesn't make it to his eyes.

"Yeah well," and then he pumps the shotgun and blasts as Jonas reappears right beside the circle.

"Shit!" Jax winces as the gun booms right next to his ear. He makes eye contact with Sam and for just a moment he sees the deep-seated fear that you'd expect to see on the face of a ten year old in this predicament. And then Sam's game face slides back into place and Jax _gets_ it.

Sam is naturally sensitive, caring and empathic and the only way he can cope with this is to shut his emotions off; to become ruthlessly efficient, detached and job-focused.

"I'm glad you're here, Jax," the kid says casually.

"Me too," Jax matches the casual tone and this time he's the one who pumps Jonas full of salt when he reappears.

Luka is shivering uncontrollably now and Jax figures it's sheer adrenalin keeping him on his feet. He takes the kid's elbow and lowers him into a sitting position, drapes another two grey blankets around his shoulders, puts Sam's discarded trash can lid in his left hand and an iron rod across his lap.

"This'll work on Jonas too," he says softly and the kid nods his understanding.

"You're gonna be okay," he adds and Luka nods trustingly.

Jax stands up again and he and Sam stand guard over Luka, shot guns at the ready as they wait for Jonas to reappear.

"So," Jax says, "How'd that pervy bastard manage to get the drop on you at the library?"

Sam looks a little embarrassed.

"I, ah, the entrance to this place? I'd figured out that the library used to be City Hall and I thought, you know…if I could find the entrance…."

"And did you?"

"Yeah. And then Jonas suddenly appeared and whacked me over the head with some massive hard back book," Sam pauses, "Is Dean okay?"

"Completely lost his shit when he realized you were missing."

Sam hangs his head miserably.

"And Dad? Did he blame Dean?"

"Yeah. No offense or anything but….your old man….he must be pretty hard to live with."

Sam snorts.

"No kidding. He's more like our drill sergeant than our father most of the time."

"He made Dean do two hundred push ups for losing you."

Sam ducks his head again.

"I got sit ups instead coz of my arm."

Sam sighs.

"Me and Dean…we're his sons. We have to jump through his crazy hoops. But you? You could've just told him where to get off."

Jax laughs.

"Tried that. It didn't go so well," Jax deepens his voice, "_You join my army, you play by my rules. You disobeyed a direct order so now you're gonna do sit ups_."

Sam snorts again. "God, he's such a _marine_! You could've still told him no."

Jax shrugs.

"Yeah, maybe. But he was threatening to tell Clay and let's just say your Dad isn't the only one with a stick up his ass about disobeying orders. Sit ups? Not as bad as what Clay would've done to me. Especially if your Dad let it slip about the ditching school and the gun shot wound."

Jax catches movement out of the corner of his eye but before he can react to it an extension lead has snaked down from the ceiling above the circle and wrapped itself around Sam's neck. Sam gasps and claws at his throat and Jax wedges his fingers in between the cord and Sam's neck, trying desperately to free him, but the cord is just too tightly wound.

Jax's eyes dart upwards as he traces out the way the extension lead managed to – quite literally – get the drop on them. Looks like it slithered its way in through the door way, up the wall and across the ceiling and there are no prizes for guessing who's controlling it. Sam's eyes are rolling in the back of his head now, his mouth working soundlessly as he clutches frantically at his neck.

You're mine, boy!" Jonas's voice whines from the other room, "I'm gonna split you in two; when I'm through with you, you're gonna wish you were dead!"

"Shut the fuck up," Jax yells in frustration, "Or at least get some new lines coz that's getting old!"

Sam's feet are stuttering towards the salt as he's jerked forwards by an unseen hand and Jax is getting desperate.

Priming his shot gun he leaps from the circle and runs to the door way, but Jonas has vanished by the time he gets there. Jax chokes off a curse as he realizes his mistake. He whirls just in time to see Jonas haul Sam out of the circle and he fires quickly, running full tilt at Sam as he does.

Jonas vanishes and Jax primes the weapon again, just in case. He drops to his knees by Sam's head and rapidly unwinds the cord. Sam is coughing and groaning and barely conscious, but he's struggling to sit up.

When his eyes suddenly widen, Jax knows the shit's about to hit the fan and he manages to half turn before Jonas's cold hands wrap around his throat. Sam's kneeling now, cradling his gun in both hands but he can't get off a clean shot with Jax in the way and he's still too fuzzy to stand up. Jax is struggling for all he's worth but he's starting to white out now and if Sam doesn't get his act into gear soon, Jax isn't sure he's going to make it.

And then Jonas howls in fury and everything changes.

X

The sum total of Jonas Montgomery's life that his aunt deemed worth keeping is pitifully small. There are just two boxes of his possessions in Laurie-Mae's attic and one of them is full of books. Dean opens the second box and sighs in relief.

He glances up at Clay and Tig standing, arms folded, by the doorway and nods at them. This looks much more hopeful. He pulls out a christening gown and bonnet and puts them on the floor; there could be hair fibers on the clothes so they're candidates for incineration.

There are a few more baby clothes and he adds them to the barbecue pile, and then tosses out a couple of Mathlete team trophies and Spelling Bee medals.

He hits pay dirt at the bottom of the box when he finds a powder blue Baby Keepsake Book and Box (or so it names itself on the front in a sickeningly ornate and overblown font.) Dean takes the lid off the box and is rewarded almost instantly with a small envelope containing half a dozen milk teeth.

"Yahtzee" he says and dumps the envelope on top of the christening gown.

"We're gonna need something to burn this shit in," he says to Clay.

The biker nods and hollers down the stairs for Gemma to find them a metal container.

After Laurie-Mae had showed them into the attic, Gemma had retreated back downstairs with her, figuring the woman may just lose her cool when they started to burn her late nephew's stuff.

"What do they want a metal container for?" Laurie-Mae asks sharply.

"I don't know, Hon," Gemma lies, as she raids her hostesses kitchen, "How about a cast iron casserole pot?" she yells up to Clay, "will that do?"

Dean nods and Clay yells back that it'll do just fine.

Gemma tries to persuade Laurie-Mae to wait for her, but the woman is suspicious now and she's not content to stay downstairs while Gemma takes the casserole pot up to the attic. She follows hard on her heels, just in time to see Dean pull a plastic pocket full of curly golden baby hair out of the Baby Book.

Gemma hands over the casserole pot and Dean dumps the hair, baby teeth and clothes into it and then, to Laurie-Mae's complete consternation, he sprinkles everything with a liberal dose of salt, before withdrawing a pewter hip flask from his jacket and pouring kerosene over everything.

"What the hell are you-" Laurie-Mae's query cuts off abruptly when Dean drags a cigarette lighter out of his jeans' pocket and sparks it up.

"NO!" Laurie-Mae howls, launching herself towards Dean, "NO! That's all I got left of my sister's beautiful little boy!"

It takes Gemma, Clay and Tig to restrain her and Dean feels kind of bad at the tears of anguish that wrack her body when he finally torches the last known remains of Jonas Montgomery.

"How do we know if it worked?" asks Tig as they watch the flames spark through blue to orange.

"We don't," Dean answers, "I mean, normally when we do a salt and burn the spirit's right there trying to stop us and we see it light up. I guess all we can do is go down to the fall out shelter and check in with Dad and Jax."

"Shit," Clay curses, "More of this wait and see bullshit," he sighs, "You know I've been thinking about getting a couple of those new cell phone things for the club. What d'you think Tig? Be handy wouldn't it if we could just call John up right now and find out what's going on?"

A cell phone. Huh. Dean likes that idea; he likes the idea of his Dad having a cell phone a lot. He's definitely going to suggest it to him.

They leave Laurie-Mae sobbing on her sofa and Tig grins broadly when Dean gets on to the back of his bike without complaint or hesitation.

"Hold tight Princess," Tig smirks and gives Dean's thigh a hearty slap, "Coz this time, ole Tig's gonna take you for a long, hard ride!"

X

Jonas howls in despair and steps away from Jax.

"NO!" he roars, stretching a hand out in front of him, "NO!"

And then he bursts into flames.

Sam slumps to the floor.

"It's over," he says.

"You okay?" Jax asks.

"Yeah."

"Then let's get outta here."

Sam nods and gets to his feet. Together then help Luka up and heads for the Church-side entrance, holding the injured ten year old up in between them.

"Can you do me a favor, Jax," Sam says, "and don't tell Dad about-"

"Don't tell Dad about _what_?" John Winchester asks.

"Dad!" Sam chokes, "You're…..here…."

"The door suddenly slid open so I figured," he shrugs, "lockdown over equals sonovabitch ganked. You boys okay?"

"Yessir," says Sam, "except Luka got stabbed, but it's not too bad."

The make it back out to the Impala in record time and John redresses Luka's wound using the field medic's kit in his trunk. Next he examines the bruises on his son's neck before turning to Jax and giving him a quick once over.

"Can I go home now?" Luka pleads from the back seat of the Impala where John had him resting while he attended to the other boys.

John climbs in beside him.

"Luka, you were very brave today," he begins and the kid sniffs, "Not as brave as Sam," he says admiringly.

"What do you think happened here today?" John asks.

"The bad man was a ghost," Luka says promptly, "he could walk through walls and everything. And every time Jax or Sam shot him with the salt he disappeared and then came back again."

"And what do you think will happen if you tell the police that? Or your Mom? Or the doctors at the hospital."

Luka is silent for a minute, then he sighs.

"They're gonna think I'm crazy. Or that I'm making stuff up."

"Right," John nods, "So even though it's the truth, we can't tell anyone that Jonas was a ghost. Do you understand?"

Luka nods.

"So we've gotta come up with an explanation for what happened here today," John continues, "One that everyone's gonna believe."

Luka nods thoughtfully.

"You know Jax's Mom Gemma? Well she's gonna come here soon with Clay and my oldest son Dean. And together, we're all gonna come up with an explanation that doesn't involve ghosts. Then we'll take you home. Okay? In the meantime, you just rest here."

Luka nods again.

John gets out of the car and goes around to where Sam and Jax are sitting on the hood.

"Report," he says.

Between the two of them Sam and Jax manage to give a fairly coherent account of everything that happened in the fallout shelter, from the moment Sam woke up in there to the moment that Jonas flamed into non existence.

John asks a question here and there and nods approvingly for the most part.

"And?" he prods, when the boys fall silent.

"And what, sir?" Sam asks innocently.

"Don't tell Dad, _what_?" John growls.

Sam takes a deep breath. He knows his Dad isn't going to let this go and he can't lie for shit to John Winchester; the man always sees right through him.

"In the library," he says, "I….sort of….um….went looking fortheentrancetothefallout shelter," he finishes the sentence in a rush.

"You did _what_?" John demands and there's a edge to his tone that Sam doesn't think bodes well for his immediate future.

"I wasn't going to go in," he hurries to assure his Dad, "I just….wanted to know….if it was where I thought it would be."

"And was it?" John enquires flatly.

Sam nods.

John stares at his youngest son for a minute and then puts a hand over his face.

"Sometimes you're too damn smart for your own good, Sammy," he says, and then everyone's attention is caught by the unmistakable roar of Harleys.

"We'll continue this discussion later," John tells Sam ominously, before turning away.

Sam looks as miserable as a whipped puppy so Jax gently nudges the kid's arm with his shoulder.

"I see push ups in someone's future," he whispers theatrically, trying to lighten things up a bit. It sort of works; Sam almost smiles.

Clay and Tig pull up a moment later and Jax is delighted to see Dean riding bitch with Tig; there's a month's worth of teasing material right there.

As soon as Tig's bike stops Dean is off and racing towards Sam. He pulls him into a fierce hug and if there are tears pooling in two sets of hazel eyes, Jax sure isn't going to mention it.

"You scared the hell out of me little brother," Dean says gruffly.

"Sorry," Sam says softly.

"Don't you ever disappear on me like that again, you hear me?"

"I'll try not to," Sam says with a hitch in his voice.

Dean reaches out a hand and grabs Jax's upper arm.

"Thank you," he says, "for looking out for him."

Jax nods.

"And Jax?"

"Yeah, Dean?"

"If you say _anything_ about me riding bitch with Tig, I will end you."


	13. Epilogue

_**Happy Halloween!**_

_**Well, this is the final installment, so thank you all for reading and favorite-ing, and thank you so much to those who took the time to review….especially Flaca514 who reviewed quite a few chapters! Your feedback was much appreciated! **___

_**Full Summary and Warnings in Chapter One…  
**_**_**

**Epilogue**

_October 2005_

Dean rocks up onto the balls of his feet and back down again, softly humming Enter Sandman under his breath.

God this is a stupid risk.

Dean grins wryly. He thinks that every time he comes and it's been two years now since his first visit.

He shoves his hands into the pockets of his black track pants and his fingers graze lightly over the clear plastic change purse he's carrying. Dean draws a deep breath. Did he remember to use the right fake id? Is it thirty or twenty dollars in coins he's allowed to bring in? Are they going to complain about his clothes?

He's been here nearly a dozen times now, he knows the routine; knows he's got all his ducks in a row, but he still can't help the anxiety building within him because walking straight into the lion's den like this is ten different kinds of reckless.

Dean's never really been introspective – that shit has always been Sam's gig – but he does wonder if maybe _reckless_ isn't kind of the point. And the fact that Dad will kick his ass from here to Alaska if he ever finds out about these visits? Yeah, that's not a disincentive either. They barely talk since Sam left for college, not unless it's about a job and even then their conversations are clinical; tactical. Dean would rather have Dad's anger than his indifference, and the way he's been pulling away lately, distancing himself from Dean, he's not going to pretend that doesn't hurt.

The line shuffles forwards and Dean shuffles forwards with it.

His mind wanders to his baby and he hopes she's okay. He left her parked outside his motel room in Folsom, but the place rated less than two stars so he doubts the staff will give a damn if someone breaks into her.

Worrying about the Impala is responsible for a large chunk of the anxiety roiling in his gut, but he could hardly bring her here, what with the cache of illegal weapons in her trunk; and he hopes she doesn't feel too betrayed by the fact that he rode the bus to Represa this morning.

The line shuffles forwards again and Dean shuffles forwards with it.

Waiting has never been Dean's strong suit. Waiting patiently in the face of potential danger is almost unbearable, and it's the waiting that's responsible for the rest of the anxiety.

If this all goes pear-shaped – and it will one day, Dean's sure of it – there'll be action and he'll be okay. Just standing here, surrounded mostly by women and kids….Dean rocks up onto the balls of his feet again and starts humming Fade to Black as the Visitors' entrance at California State Prison looms closer.

Jackson Teller, VP of the Sons of Anarchy Motorcycle club, and one of Dean's oldest friends has called this place home for the last two years; stupid sonovabitch got himself arrested on a gun running charge and not even his good buddy Sherriff Wayne Unser could get Jax out of a stint inside this time.

Still, from a purely selfish perspective, Dean has to concede that it wasn't bad timing on Jax's part. Coming to visit Jax on a regular basis has given Dean a good excuse to swing by Palo Alto and check up on Sam on a regular basis.

Not that Geekboy has any clue that his big brother's been checking up on him. Officially, they're not talking. Not since….. Dean closes his eyes. Not going there…

Not that Dean isn't happy to visit Jax; he is. Jax is one of the few people from his completely jacked childhood that Dean bothers to keep in contact with. He's a useful person to know. Jax's step father and club president Clay Morrow put them in contact with people who knew how to make first rate fake ids years ago; good ones too, real enough to get you on to an international flight without question.

The Winchesters have purchased the occasional gun from SAMCRO as well. And, Dean recalls with a grin, SAMCRO has charters all around the country. Being a close friend of the original charter's VP has the advantage of making him _persona grata_ in any SAMCRO club room in America and he's taken advantage of that a few times over the years. Once, he even turned up at the Nevada club rooms with a huge gash down his side, caused by Chimera claws, and the local PD on his tail wanting to arrest him for deliberately starting a forest fire. Totally not his fault; the Chimera spat fire at him and ignited some nearby trees when he was trying to shove a lead-tipped lance down its throat.

Ah good times. He got sewed up by an ex-army medic who gave him the good stuff to help with the pain, and oh yeah, Dean licks his lips, those hot blonde twins Trixie and Dixie, yeah…they helped with the pain too.

But aside from being useful, Jax is a good guy and Dean likes him a lot.

The four months the Winchesters lived in Charming are amongst Dean's happiest childhood memories.

Okay, there was some shit with the Mayans who had the audacity to get pissed at Dean for kicking one of their guys unconscious, but sparring with the Mayans was mostly fun. Sure, things had gotten out of hand sometimes and, Dean grins ruefully, he remembers a couple of occasions when he and Jax hadn't been able to sit comfortably for a few days as a result, but by and large his memories of Charming are of riding Harleys, working on cars at Teller-Morrow, and being part of a real family. He was happy there and he had a lot of fun. With the notable exception of their first week in town when Sam got snatched by a pervy ghost.

Now that Dean thinks about it he'd probably have to class that as Sam's first real hunt, even though it wasn't supposed to be. The kid did a great job with the research, got himself snatched, and then did a great job protecting both himself, and the other kidnapped kid, from the ghost.

God…what was that kid's name? Lucas…or something…

Anyway…Dean snorts, none of that mattered in the end because the only thing John Winchester had focused on was the fact that Sam had disobeyed orders. He'd gotten up and walked away from where Dean had left him; he'd been careless and let a ghost get the drop on him.

Dean frowns. Christ. The kid had been ten year's old for God's sake, what he'd suffered through should've been enough to give him PTSD, but he'd coped.

And their Dad had handed him his ass for it.

Dean shakes his head sadly. He remembers when they found Sam, remembers begging him never to disappear on him again and Sam had promised that he wouldn't.

But he did.

Ran away in Flagstaff when he was fifteen years old.

Dean swallows. Yeah, not going there. That was a bad time.

And then the kid ran away to Stanford when he was eighteen.

Okay, technically he went to college, on a full ride no less, but that was deserting your family in John Winchester's book and their Dad had given him the 'you walk out that door, don't you bother coming back' speech.

Sam had walked; and Dean misses his little brother like hell.

"ID?"

Dean blinks and realizes that he's at the security booth.

He notes the CDCR's reluctant concession to today's festival - a miniature Jack-o-lantern and a nearly empty bowl of candy - as he hands over a California State driver's license in the name of Dean Remington.

He flashes Corrections Officer Lashonda Jackson his most flirtatious smile, running his tongue across his bottom lip and letting his pupils dilate. It's second nature now and he probably wouldn't have even realized that he was doing it if he hadn't just been thinking about his Dad and the way he and Sam were raised.

'_A hunter uses every weapon in his arsenal, boys_,' his Dad used to lecture, '_And your good looks are a weapon. It's like sleight of hand. If a pretty smile and some casual flirting distracts the target from whatever you don't want them to notice, then you smile and you flirt like hell._'

And Dean really doesn't want the CDCR to realize that he's been flashing a fake id at them for the last two years. Or that almost everything on the Form 106 that he submitted is a complete fabrication. Except for the finger prints. Not much he could do to fabricate those, and he just knows that's going to come back and bite him on the ass one day.

But not today.

CO Jackson hands the license back to him and waves him through the metal detectors and into the screening area. Dean knows the drill. He toes his Nikes off and then stands still, legs apart, arms up and a little out to the side and lets another CO wave the hand wand over him before patting him down and asking him to turn out his pockets. He's not carrying anything he shouldn't be (not even the knife he's worn at his ankle since he was ten) and he almost hates that part the most, the fact that he has to come in naked.

Before he's even had time to heave a sigh of relief he's through screening and into the Visitation Room, neck craning to see Jax.

"Dean! Over here, man!"

Dean's always surprised when Jax pulls him into a hug, despite the fact that he does it every time they see each other.

"Been to see Sam?" Jax enquires as they sit down at the small plastic table.

Dean shakes his head.

"Just finished a job out at Crater Lake. Heading down there after here."

"A job, huh. Do I wanna know?"

About the Devalpa hijacking hikers?

"Probably not."

Jax nods.

"You gonna talk to him this time?"

He means Sam, not the Devalpa.

"Dunno," Dean shrugs, "Maybe."

Jax stretches out his legs and holds Dean's eyes with his own.

"I know it's none of my business," he begins, and Dean cuts him off, eyes hard.

"You're right," he says, "It's none of your business."

Jax backs off. He's good like that, doesn't push things. He'll think things through and say his piece, but he won't push.

"So," Jax smirks after a moment, "Met any hot yoga teachers lately?"

Dean rolls his eyes.

"Man, I should never've told you about Lisa."

Jax laughs, "Yeah well, not like I'm getting any action. I gotta live through you these days!"

"Really?" Dean can't resist teasing, "You got all that gorgeous blonde hair and you're not getting laid in here?"

Jax laughs good naturedly. "Sounds like you wouldn't mind a slice of this yourself. I'd be flattered only your brother always did say you'd hit anything with a pulse."

Dean grins back at him and the ache in his chest eases just a bit.

"He's just jealous coz I'm the good looking brother."

Jax drags his eyes over Dean.

"Uh huh. Gotta say, I'm lovin' the yuppie jogger look. Really."

"Dude, 98% of my clothes are denim!"

And there's no denim allowed when you're visiting California State Prison; it's too close to the inmate uniform.

They talk shit for a while and it's simple and uncomplicated in a way Dean's life never really is.

"How's John?" Jax asks eventually and Dean stills.

"He's, ah," Dean runs a hand through his hair, "He hasn't been home in a few days."

Jax nods.

"Not unusual this time of year. He's probably just holed up somewhere with John, Jack and José."

Dean wants to take offense at the words but he can't because it's not like that's never happened before. The anniversary of his wife's death is always hard on John.

"I dunno, man," he says, "he was on a hunting trip. Zipped out right in the middle of it. Left me a creepy-ass message, distorted as hell by EVP, about us all being in danger and…..I haven't heard from him since. That was weeks ago, Jax! And he hasn't checked in with anyone. Not once. I gotta tell you," he meets the biker's eyes, "I'm worried."

Jax nods.

"You gonna tell Sam?"

Dean is silent for a moment, then he nods.

"Yeah. Dunno if he'll care; but yeah."

"Then what?"

Dean shrugs.

"Guess I'll start looking for him. Check out the job he was working, see if I can pick up his trail."

Jax looks steadily at him for a moment, says, "Gonna ask Sam to check it out with you?"

"I can do this by myself," Dean retorts harshly.

Jax stares at him again.

"Yeah," he says, "Maybe you can. But you don't want to."

And Dean's got nothing to say to that because he's right.

Saving people. Hunting things. It's the family business. And if Dad's gone (Dean's brain stutters at the thought) then Sam's all the family he has left.

As All Hallows Eve turns into November 1st, Dean sits silently in the Impala, camped outside the darkened apartment that Sam shares with his girlfriend.

He nearly turns the key in the ignition a dozen times; maybe more; but eventually the fear of having to go it alone finally propels Dean out of the car and back into his brother's life.

And in the darkness a man with yellow eyes chuckles. Pawn to E4.

-fin-

11


End file.
